The Winter Writing Sanctuary has now finished but you can find other beautiful writing classes on my website dowhatyouloveforlife.com or join my private writing community SoulCircle (here on Substack) for year-round inspiration, including live writing sessions. Click here to join and get a lovely discount off annual membership. Can’t wait to see you inside! Beth Xx
This is the official thread for anyone participating in my Winter Writing Sanctuary who wants to share their class-inspired work here on Substack and connect with others taking the course.
Please feel free to also share your work in Notes and tag me
Hi Beth! I wanted to let you know that I've been participating in the Winter Writing Sanctuary one week at a time since the beginning of the year. Thank you for keeping access open until summer! This has been transformational for my writing life. I started my own Substack and I am slowly building confidence in my craft and in my dreams of earning an income through my writing. Thank you for faithfully sharing your work- you have inspired me!
My first haiku try and got a few of them out surprisingly effortlessly ... got 6 out in one shot and I think I'm addicted ... mind you they so not all adher to the 5-7-5 syllable tradition. But I'm taking my win ✨️
My commitment to myself in this winter writing sanctuary was to write my first substack essay and I did it!
Yesterday I got my first ‘like’ and comment. I also found an article referring to the ‘hero post’, which declares the purpose / themes of the account, and this is something I’m going to think about. It’s strange, but exciting to be curating my writing identity!
Has anyone else met their commitment to themself? Celebrate & share your bravery!
Coming to this a bit behind, but here is my invitation G: Making space:
The Time I Stripped Away My Fear
I didn't strip it all away, of course. Just some. Just enough to move forward, out into the world, into the cold, the snow. The acting class was in Boston and it was the first one I'd taken, ever. Even today I don't know how I did it, how I enrolled, drove all the way singing "The Rocky Road to Dublin," got out of the car. Stepped inside.
But I was instantly warm. Alive in the alive-est way.
How is it that all art forms are so similar? So almost exactly the same, in fact? This is what I thought, and still think. The moment when I was instructed not to speak, and just react. The struggle until I suddenly broke the fourth wall and my conscious mind stepped out of the room. Isn't this how it feels to write? The moment when we stop writing for others and become honest, genuine? Everyone could see it happen, too. Down to the second.
I have all these quotes pinned to the wall above my desk, about telling the truth, being brave, showing up and fighting the doubt. It's true for everything: writing, acting, drawing, making music. When I stripped away the fear, when I stripped away the other people, when I finally immersed myself completely in an alien life, everything came alive.
My commitment to myself- putting a substack essay out into the world. It’s currently in the draft box!
My writing style is quite confessional, and I want to consider my boundaries before pressing send & launching my essay into the world!
@bethkempton, or other winter sanctuary writers, do you have any advice / links to any substack essays reflecting on personal / professional boundaries and how much of our selves to share as writers?
“I swear Scoobs is around here whispering in your ear.” I said to Finny, my wilding pup I rescued from a shelter.
Finny is completely different from my beloved, gentle, stuffy-like dog Scoobs. Where Scoob was mild and chill, Finny is wild and unruly, kind of like me! As different as they were, they had eerily similar behaviours!
One that always stood out to me is how they would both go and sit in the doorway of our room when I was going out without them. I would always explain what I was doing and each of them would promptly turn away from me and sit in the entryway of our bedroom. I would get that woeful look, as if to say, “ You’re really leaving without me?”
With ears like Baby Yoda (that seem to have a life of their own), Finny has a ferocity in his eyes, reminiscent perhaps from his days roaming the streets of Texas.
“Do you know Scooby?” I ask.
He tilted his head, ears twitching, as if he was considering what I said.
“ Do you boy?” “Do you know Scoobs?” I repeated.
“Ruff!” he exclaimed and jumped up on me.
Laughing, I pushed him off and made to get off the sofa. He pawed at me. Another “Ruff!” and a penetrating stare.
“I must be losing it.” I muttered to myself. And yet I found myself saying, “If you for real know Scooby,” I said to Finn, “ Then bark twice!”
“Ruff! Ruff!” he said matter of factly.
Something in his gaze resonated so deeply within me, in a way that I simply cannot explain. I scooped him into my arms and felt like the luckiest dog mama in the world.
Some words that came out during the final bonus meditation of the course:
I feel beauty, like a tangible thing. It creeps up on me unawares, a flower petal slipped unnoticed into the palm of my hand. I experience the scent of colour, the sound of softness, the texture of a shaft of light beaming through the clouds. I caress it gently. It yields, yet is strong. It fills me with a gladness and a sadness. My heart expands with the feel of it, the taste of it. My being opens to the sound of it, responding to its call.
An angel speaks to me now, its words the light of sunrise glistening above a far distant horizon, on its breath the scent of an infant’s hair. An angel caresses me now, its touch the tender gaze of a loved one in the morning. An angel moves me now, our dance the soft spring rains containing the first promises of summer. An angel lifts me up and gently places me on my path, the way ahead a vast beam of light shining forth from the centre of my being, the light of the fire that burns in the cave of my heart, brighter than the sun, softer than the sound of the dawn, lighting my way forward, forever, and backward, forever, with me, around me, in me. I am the light of life that lights the way. I am the light that never goes out. I take one step, two steps, forward on my path, generating light, emitting light, being light.
I often forget. I often forget that beauty is everywhere, to be felt viscerally, available to us at all times. Not just to appreciate but to feel and live and light our way. Beauty is love is life is us.
Greetings fellow writers! I finally took an evening to complete the rest of the Winter Writing Sanctuary. I wanted to see if completing a bunch of lessons might create the space for a breakthrough. My story around 1 word (Day 8) was long and is perfect for adding to one of the fantasy novel MSs I am working on right now. Here is an excerpt:
"Into the silence , Julia offered a greeting, "hello?" she said softly, and listened for an answer. As her other foot touched the floor, piano music began to fill the hall, drowning out the sounds of the hearth fire. Shy of interrupting the musician playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, she stepped backward to face the staircase.
Julia placed a hand on the banister and lifted her foot to the first step. She felt a strange tug forward. S he was always drawn to books an loved reading, but this felt other-worldly. Was this place enchanted? Was there a book in the stacks seeking her? Or were all of the bookshelves together drawing her to them?
Julia climbed the stairs slowly at first, but her pace quickened as she drew closer to the upper room. When she reached the top stair, a black cat sat purring and a vellichor enveloped her as she looked at the books on the shelves. T hey were all ancient - first editions printed hundreds of years ago. Their smell reminded her of her grandfather, a retired professor of linguistics at Harvard..."
For Day 10's lesson titled "Connection," Both of my written story blurbs are fictional, neither truly memoir material, but it was super fun thinking how I could be connected to the person I chose as my random human I'd crossed paths with. So, here is my blurb for a novel:
"A tall, handsome, dark-haired youth named Michel walks into the UU church to serve as guest pianist where Tina sings in the choir. When they begin exchanging childhood memories over mugs of cocoa at a cafe, they discover a connection that has the power to change their lives in unimaginable ways."
For the bonus meditation, here is what came up:
"Yum! The aroma of melting chocolate is rich, more chocolatey than it has ever smelled before, and fills my heart with joy. My whole body wants to eat it up, to climb into a tub of it and soak in the chocolate through my thin skin of mist. Lemon smells more lemony, too, as I soak in its essence, luxurious like lemon chiffon pie.
The scent of mine smells fresher than ever, making my whole body tingle. I can feel the breeze rustling the pine branches travel in waves across my skin. It's refreshing coolness renews my spirit, cleanses my body of woes. The bark of trees fells alive. It pulses, like the sap that flows through them...
Snowflakes land on me and melt to mush. I can feel each splat as they become one with my skin and clothes.
The sun warms me like a newborn in an incubator. Am I being baked as I lay in the sand? A sea breeze riding on waves moves across me and cools my skin once again. I am ready to drop my feet into the cool pool at the base of the waterfall before me. The spray from the thundering sheets of water caresses my face.
I know I'll sleep well tonight. All of these impressions are preparing me...they are an initiation into a new chapter of my life.
Finally, here is a poem I wrote today. It was "inspired" by the worship associate for our UU service lighting our "cost of war" candle for peace. It springs from wanting to write a spoken word piece about the fallout I'm experiencing from my divorce of a year ago.
I'm still working my way through the lessons and I'm really enjoying the experience. I am willing myself to create a practice, but giving myself the grace to let it bloom as it will. Tiny steps forward still move me in the direction I'm trying to go.
Here I am again. I have moved away from my beloved ocean. Mind you, not so far that I can't drive an hour to get here. Here in the offing. I am delighted there is a place waiting for me by the side of the road. I park and slip off my ballet shoes (I have an official meeting later), and the minute my toes touch the sand, I know I'm home. It is the winter beach. Only two people are here. I make three. A man bent over a bucket collecting the gray rocks smoothed by waters and tossed ashore by winter. (I can almost hear the ocean say: "you rest here and I will see you again when the summer crowds appear.) The man looks like a gardener in his large brimmed straw hat, and I imagine his rocks will grace a beautiful garden (at least, I hope so). As I walk a little closer to the water's edge, I am taken in by the girl. She is sitting on a rumbled blanket, her long brown hair curling unruly and hiding her face. She has brought her lunch and she is sharing it (perhaps there are four of us here?). I quietly walk off to the side so as not to disturb. Ah, the fourth of us is a seagull, tucked deeply and comfortably in the sand, kindly receiving her small offerings. Just a girl and a seagull. Just a man and his rocks. Just me in the offing of coming back home.
I am constantly stripping. It's a full time, overtime unpaid job fo for me. Never ending. Why?
I started down this journey to be lighter and free. Living in hope of this feeling. Knowing that life is meant to be experienced without limitations. To be enjoyed.
Instead, it has been a life of deep dark excavating. The fight, the torment, the pain. All leading to sadness, weakness, loneliness, and helplessness.
Allowing for it to come up and out
Allowing it a voice
Allowing it to breathe
Moving it through me and out of me
You feel the possibility of lightness. And you are back, that feeling that know, you've always known is unnecessary
You move through it again
You try. You don't stop trying
You excel at being the tryer
Is it worth it?
Has it been worth it?
Some days
but...how does one do this?
There are so many methods, so many possibilities
Choices
Which one and within that, how again?
I used to feel guilty for one of the ways not working out for me or something not feeling quite right but in the end it isn't necessarily about that thing/ way lasting for a lifetime. It's okay that it doesn't. If it did, maybe we wouldn't have found the next thing or the thing after that. Perhaps comparable to relationships in some ways?
Do that thing that scares you into complete meltdown
Do it slowly
Do it once every 6 months if thats how your nervous system currently copes
Be the love, mother, sinner for yourself
Eat the indulgent food and that glass of wine but be conscious of it. Sit with the why - before, during or after but sit with it and you will find your way.
You'll keep finding your way. One step after the other
and you'll more than likely go through hell and heavily question WTF you have put yourself through but you'll keep going for your perfect 'illusion' of freedom.
Try all the tricks, all the habits.
Keep moving, keep smiling to create all the space.
It will all slot into place when you are in a place to open and ready to ready to receive.
(For my Flow Dance family: one dance after the other)
The trees at the labyrinth speak to me of Connection. They encourage me to write...to pour myself like water from a chalice onto the paper, a vessel ready to receive me...and transmute my words into enchanting butterflies 🦋 that land on shoulders.
Light dances with shadows at the other end of this underground passage I find myself in...liquefying like a caterpillar 🐛 in a chrysalis.
When a full shopping bag is left behind at the small, local party shop, no one thinks anything of it. Well, other than how tasty the items from the bakery smell in there! Until it isn’t claimed and on checking the bag, the cashier, Mary, discovers a bloodied carving knife and knuckle duster, wrapped in paper at the bottom!
When the police are called, the morning’s customers are now all suspects and must give their accounts.
Natasha had only popped in to buy a card for her Dad’s Birthday but was there when the bag was first spotted, next to the till where she stood. Can she prove her innocence?
And if the bag isn’t hers, whose bag is it and, more importantly, whose blood is on the knife?
Can Natasha and Mary get to the bottom of the crime and find the real criminal before the police have to put a face to the crime, whether they’re guilty or not?
For Lesson 2.5 I decided to do as Beth suggested and write about belonging. It has been on my mind a lot lately. I heard Brene Brown say " I belong to me." and have been thinking of it ever since. That statement inspired me to write this:What is belonging? I say.
Reflecting on what kind of exercises work for me - Invitation N Winter Writing Sanctuary @Beth Kempton
I feel so enthused to write daily; although it might not be possible daily I’m thrilled to know enthusiasm again. I feel a new longing to write without the expectations attached. I have more freedom and less judgement of myself. Here is my cinquain to sum up my experience. With much gratitude to you Beth❤️
I'm way behind... suffering with chronic migraine and haven't been well but feeling the urge to write and create for the last month or two. So, I signed up for @BethKempton WWS course. I finally was able to journey through the intro and first lesson and can't wait to take this in at my own pace. I love it so far. Thank you.
My first Haiku - unsure but it was fun. I take a lot of long walks alone and so this may be something I want to develop.
While cleaning out a very snowy paddock and horse shed- I thought I would try out the Haiku exercise. The horses aren't the only ones dreaming of warmer days!
I had been there before... The certainty sprung to mind in a flash. More slowly I absorbed the pictures around me, the sounds, smells and even a taste; a taste of salty air. I knew them all, I recognised them all. I had been there before.
But when? I didn’t recall the experience. City life was all I knew; all I had ever known. My experience of the seaside was purely through the TV and films, the nearest beach was several states away! And yet, I did know this. When had it happened? Was it a memory? I did not know when from.
“See?” she asked.
I blinked, stumbling in my thoughts, before registering her at my side.
The lady who had knocked on my door only a few hours ago, but had before been unknown. The woman who had somehow persuaded me not to leave for work, to miss my meetings and let down my clients at the last minute, and instead listen to her and join her in this life-changing experience she talked of.
Flicking her unruly, curling, long hair away from her eyes, she’d said she’s tracked me down. It had taken her my lifetime. I hadn’t put out enough signals – signals? – she said, for her to find me sooner.
A strange lady. Not like me. I wore my sharp suit, clean and business-ready. She wore a long dress with flower print and tassels to the bottom. It looked older, dirty and stained, and diminished with wear. A hippy, that was what sprung to mind.
My eyes closed, I breathed in deeply. I could still taste and smell it; the air. She was right. But how? How could I have been here before?
I didn’t believe in God, the power of the universe, ghosts and ghouls, or spirits in heaven and beyond. I was not the person to believe in souls continuing on to multiple lives, to believe in reincarnation.
I opened my eyes. It was all still there.
Now, in the distance I saw a small figure on the beach. Black, silhouetted against the sun. But, the shape, the person, felt familiar. My heart fluttered. A knowing, a recognition, a heart wrenching and all encompassing feeling of... love?
Then, I heard it; his laughter caught on the air. It floated over to me.
My heart clenched.
I knew it to be true then. For, I knew this child. My son, my love, from a time long before...
The unique flavour of your human form was one of deep love, celebration of life and lots of laughter!
The era of which you inhabited demanded great efforting for you and yet one of your greatest strengths was something I like to refer to as ‘specialing’.
Your face always lit up in a smile that said, “I’m pleased to see you!”
A kind of beam full of pride and gratitude.
It gave you a unique sparkle with enough to go round that it peppered your guests, as if to say,
I have never once considered myself a poet, or even someone who 'gets' poetry, but this course is really changing my mind on that! It's far more fun to write poetry than I ever expected.
Vellichor: The nostalgia and temporality of used bookstores
Deep in the slightly dusty heart of the bookshop there was a chair. It was upholstered in a dusky pink softness, frayed a little at the edges and it rested on 4 solid, slightly bent legs braced against an imaginary weight. Around it, the shelves of books grew outwards, beginning with the fertility of Fiction K-P, developing into Poetry: World and retreating towards the dimly glimpsed History: Military.
Most days, at around 12.30, the door to the bookshop would open with a practised ease and a youngish man would enter. Usually dressed in beige, he tended towards a Macintosh and tie, although he was probably no more than 30. He had a tired, slightly crumpled look about him, but on entering he de-creased somewhat, ironed out as if the scent of the books smoothed his day and soothed his restless energy. He would nod to the proprietor, who barely glanced up, and head for the world of fiction that was waiting for him, a glittering inner world of outer dust.
He liked to take his time, to touch the books with his fingertips and every so often to lean in to sniff - just oh so delicately like a quivering pig’s whisper - the hint of the world and the book’s place in it, that musky suggestion of mystery that second hand books wear like a jacket.
Once a book was selected he would sink his restless beigeness into the pale pink fuzz of the chair and let his fingers idle through the pages - a delicate game of seduction, although it was never clear who was seducing who. Drawn in by their smell, by the comforting weight of the pages and, above all, by the promise of a passage to another consciousness, another life, he would take a deep breath and relax into the act of reading. He seemed so suitably suited to the shop - his creased, beige demeanor reflecting thee rows of - mostly - brown spines, while the pink chair peeking from beneath him suggested the fleshy inner worlds of Fiction K-P. His habitual presence was complicit in a world of passion between the dull protective covers.
He was always alone, Mr Beige, if you didn’t count his internal world. He never nodded goodbye to anyone at the door, never entered or left with anyone else. It was always just him and then the books; the books and their past; both he and the books with their hidden, giddy present.
And then one day he wasn’t there. And then another day. And another and another until his absences joined together to make the usualness of time. And while he had only been one man, Mr Beige, only one customer, there was a space that only he had ever filled - an unread story with dusty brown edges enclosing a restless softness. He left behind a faint memory in the air and the merest suggestion of a mystery, captured for a moment in the soft, frayed chair with the bent legs.
I want to thank you so much Beth for this lovely winter writing sanctuary. I only finished it today as I have been running a bit behind (whatever that means!) I found you last year but I only managed to complete half the course! Throughout the year I have read your books and listened to your podcast. I was delighted to discover your Christmas one!
This year, after a particularly difficult end to the year I decided to commit fully and finish this sanctuary no matter what! And I have!! With the help of your prompts I have produced some lovely musings on topics I never thought to write about. I have been introduced to Substack - which being a social media/internet avoider (as much as is possible anyway) I may not have found and have been introduced to the idea of personal essays as not only a way to get to know myself better but to help others too.
I am absolutely delighted to say that you have given me the idea to combine my two loves. I have just launched my own holistic pregnancy and birth coaching business and am going to use my new writing practice to reach my audience and show them a little of what I do and what I am about! Saying this out loud lights a little spark in me that I don't remember feeling since I was a teen! Who know, maybe I will gather such a collection of essays that I will write a whole book one day! I hope so. I hope to meet you again on this, my new writing path, even if just in another writing sanctuary. Below is the link to my brand new Substack and my first published piece of writing that I wrote in the Sanctuary!
Everything was gone, burned away by the fire of life. I sat in ruins, shaken to the core, asking what had happened? The life I had carefully built for myself was gone, the marriage I had found myself in was in tatters, my dreams and hopes, burned, my passion withered. We had
been through so much loss, so much sacrifice, that all that remained of my life had been stripped away.
He is as a fire, burning the chaff of our lives, tearing through and pulling out all the weeds, extras, selfishness or self-centeredness, the greed, the glory, idolization. It stands no chance against His fire, it goes up in smoke as soon as He draws near. We are dead, yet we are made alive in Him.
It felt very vulnerable. I didn’t know what was left of me, or what I even wanted to be left. Many times, it felt as if I had been locked out of my life and I couldn’t get back in. The door was locked and I was banging on it, looking through the window, seeing the loveliness of it, but I couldn’t get to it, because it didn’t exist anymore. That was the hardest part. I would have rushed back in my weakness, I would have given in, but it didn’t exist anymore, it was gone, burned on the altar of sacrifice.
My life is not my own. I had lived it, but had I really felt it? I was caught up, clinging on to those dreams, they were mine and I needed them.
What was I without them? But He said, it’s me. It was only ever me.
And so there I sat in ruination, my life burning around me. There were some deep cries, some wailing, my heart felt broken. There was confusion, Why God? and Where do I go now?
Yet in my deep sorrow, morning came. It wasn't the kindof morning where it bursts into birdsong and light. It was the kindof morning, that creeps gently from deep black darkness, to a warm pink. There are still many shadows, there is still ice on the ground and the birds are hesitant to begin fully singing. If you were to wake up at this point, you’d think, oh its still night. But if you’d been up to see the real blackness, the kind that you feel you are going to sink into and the silence before the animals are up, you’d know this was morning. You’d know that light has come, regardless of the lingering shadows.
And so it rebuilds. The house of sand is swept away and the house on the rock, the imperfect house, with its door too wide and no insulation on the windows. It doesnt have a couch yet to be fully comfortable, but it's there. It's being built and it's staying put. And when tragedy hits, worse
than ever before, it stands. It may sway, it may get hurt, battered, bruised, but it wont fall. The house on the hill stands tall and shines with the bright light within.
Hi Beth! I wanted to let you know that I've been participating in the Winter Writing Sanctuary one week at a time since the beginning of the year. Thank you for keeping access open until summer! This has been transformational for my writing life. I started my own Substack and I am slowly building confidence in my craft and in my dreams of earning an income through my writing. Thank you for faithfully sharing your work- you have inspired me!
2023 What a year for sure! One I am happy to close the door on- but keep the lessons and joyful parts.
Reflection of a Year:
Loss punctuated the year .
Loss of family and friends- who have passed on from this life.
Loss of relationships that helped define the past life.
Loss of certainty and assurance for the future.
Life ebbs and flows. It has highs and lows.
Memories sustain us and give us comfort.
Changes in relationships are knowledge and growth.
Finding truth and letting go. Weeding the garden that is life.
Focusing on newness and building hope.
Knowing now, that love, kindness, and joy are just a season away and waiting to bloom.
Thank you for your words, they describe so eloquently the season I now find myself in too.
My first haiku try and got a few of them out surprisingly effortlessly ... got 6 out in one shot and I think I'm addicted ... mind you they so not all adher to the 5-7-5 syllable tradition. But I'm taking my win ✨️
Here is a couple of favourites.
Big snowflakes floating
Inhale watering the lungs
Soft light illuminating
Deep cold is hiding
Confused why birds are chirping
Snow turning into rain
My commitment to myself in this winter writing sanctuary was to write my first substack essay and I did it!
Yesterday I got my first ‘like’ and comment. I also found an article referring to the ‘hero post’, which declares the purpose / themes of the account, and this is something I’m going to think about. It’s strange, but exciting to be curating my writing identity!
Has anyone else met their commitment to themself? Celebrate & share your bravery!
https://open.substack.com/pub/jokirkwillowblooms/p/copy-another-year-gone-by-in-my-end?r=ua3vc&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
Measuring A Year
A Year Gone By
Quilted and pillowed
Out of doors glamping
car camping-
Sanctuary.
Between the lines of my life
but never again between the walls
of it.
The end of the trail,
Yes.
A new beginning,
Yes.
Measuring A Moment
A Winter Moment
I saw the wild goose
as she flies
And I knew this
to be my new
beginning.
The dark tree line
silhouetted by the evening sky
Payne's grey and purple peach.
"Rest" and "Well done"
it speaks to me.
Winter Writer's Sanctuary 2023
@BethKempton
Building a practice.Invitation:H Deja Vu
3rd attempt
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/inspired-by-mornings-of-candelight?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
Thank you!🙏🏻
Coming to this a bit behind, but here is my invitation G: Making space:
The Time I Stripped Away My Fear
I didn't strip it all away, of course. Just some. Just enough to move forward, out into the world, into the cold, the snow. The acting class was in Boston and it was the first one I'd taken, ever. Even today I don't know how I did it, how I enrolled, drove all the way singing "The Rocky Road to Dublin," got out of the car. Stepped inside.
But I was instantly warm. Alive in the alive-est way.
How is it that all art forms are so similar? So almost exactly the same, in fact? This is what I thought, and still think. The moment when I was instructed not to speak, and just react. The struggle until I suddenly broke the fourth wall and my conscious mind stepped out of the room. Isn't this how it feels to write? The moment when we stop writing for others and become honest, genuine? Everyone could see it happen, too. Down to the second.
I have all these quotes pinned to the wall above my desk, about telling the truth, being brave, showing up and fighting the doubt. It's true for everything: writing, acting, drawing, making music. When I stripped away the fear, when I stripped away the other people, when I finally immersed myself completely in an alien life, everything came alive.
Something beautiful shined out.
2.5 Belonging: Building a community- From daily spark
Waiting, quietly listening
for the earth to reveal itself.
The winds have passed
throwing trampolines over fences and fields.
Anything untethered, vulnerable to its fury.
Waiting
for the stillness
to resume, I assume
too much, it would seem.
What is waiting?
Who is waiting?
What are we waiting for?
The earth has revealed itself to us all
many times before;
quietly whispering,
waiting for us
to listen.
2:3 PROMISING
My commitment to myself- putting a substack essay out into the world. It’s currently in the draft box!
My writing style is quite confessional, and I want to consider my boundaries before pressing send & launching my essay into the world!
@bethkempton, or other winter sanctuary writers, do you have any advice / links to any substack essays reflecting on personal / professional boundaries and how much of our selves to share as writers?
SHOWING UP: Building a practice Invitation:H Deja Vu
3)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/i-had-been-there-before-standing?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
SHOWING UP: Building a practice Invitation:H Deja Vu
2)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/i-had-been-there-before-standing?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
SHOWING UP: Building a practice Invitation:H Deja Vu
1)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/i-have-been-there-beforebefore-i?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
Overcoming
Some call it a disease and those who are biblical call it a stronghold
It started young for me so I never put much thought behind it besides YOLO
I can't pinpoint when it became my actual addiction or when it took hold of me
I used to manage it so well until I couldn't anymore
Do you think addictions can come and go as they please or that they never truly go away?
I do not know which I believe for me but the last battle was the hardest one yet
Maybe since this time I actual came to put up a fight instead of burying it away
It isn't easy killing off a part of you that comfort you for so long
Alcohol to me was an escape, a healer, a antidote to all my problems
It allowed me to suppress what I was feeling since I didn't know how to face them
Alcholism can be easily overlooked but one drink can easily become one drink too many times
I overcame my alcoholism replacing it with my need for God
Spirituality gave me clarity, resilience, confidence that God has the power over my life
Alcohol has no power over me
I am free
A Dream Home In The Woods
My boots crunch in the snow as I make my way through it
I am surrounded by tall trees full of life yet they look so empty
each branch holding nothing and so much all at the same time
I always loved how the transition of leaves happen before winter
the brisk fresh air comes across my face as the wind blows in my direction
I can smell the firewood burning from the chimney
I hear children full of laughter leaking out of the windows
A beautiful chocolate brown with big open glass windows sits tall in my presence
surrounded by massive long trees and silence hidden from the world
I left my head up to the sky and take a deep breath
filling my lungs with cold winter air as my heart fills with serenity
as I get closer to the door I could smell the baked chicken sweeping the porch
I open the door to meeting my lovely husband greeting my entrance
"Dinner is ready" he says as the children's giggles come crashing through the living room
I quickly take off my boots and jacket placing it on the hook
I stand still for one last moment to soak in all the goodness of being home
2.6 Invisible Threads
“I swear Scoobs is around here whispering in your ear.” I said to Finny, my wilding pup I rescued from a shelter.
Finny is completely different from my beloved, gentle, stuffy-like dog Scoobs. Where Scoob was mild and chill, Finny is wild and unruly, kind of like me! As different as they were, they had eerily similar behaviours!
One that always stood out to me is how they would both go and sit in the doorway of our room when I was going out without them. I would always explain what I was doing and each of them would promptly turn away from me and sit in the entryway of our bedroom. I would get that woeful look, as if to say, “ You’re really leaving without me?”
With ears like Baby Yoda (that seem to have a life of their own), Finny has a ferocity in his eyes, reminiscent perhaps from his days roaming the streets of Texas.
“Do you know Scooby?” I ask.
He tilted his head, ears twitching, as if he was considering what I said.
“ Do you boy?” “Do you know Scoobs?” I repeated.
“Ruff!” he exclaimed and jumped up on me.
Laughing, I pushed him off and made to get off the sofa. He pawed at me. Another “Ruff!” and a penetrating stare.
“I must be losing it.” I muttered to myself. And yet I found myself saying, “If you for real know Scooby,” I said to Finn, “ Then bark twice!”
“Ruff! Ruff!” he said matter of factly.
Something in his gaze resonated so deeply within me, in a way that I simply cannot explain. I scooped him into my arms and felt like the luckiest dog mama in the world.
What I measure in a year is by what I've overcome
Some call it a disease and those who are biblical will call it a stronghold
For me it started really young, so I never put much thought to it beside YOLO
I can't pinpoint exactly when it became an addiction and took a hold of me
At one point of my life I managed it well until I lost control again
Do you think addictions can come and go as they please? Or do they never truly go away?
I don't know which one I believe, and maybe there is a problem in my beliefs
The last battle was the hardest, maybe since this time I actually put up a fight
Instead of trying to burry it or put a bandaid over a wound that was too big
It isn't easy killing off a part of you that comfort you for so long.
Alcohol to me was an escape, a healer, an antidote to all my problems
It allowed me to surpress my feelings when I had no idea how to face them
Do you believe we can handle our emotions on our own?
Or can we only handle them with the help of the Lord?
I can tell you one thing about overcoming alcoholism, you cannot do it alone
For me I was given clarity and redeemed by who I am in the Lord
I no longer desire to drink a cup of alcohol instead fill myself up with the cup of Jesus
I am free, I am loved, I am saved
Hi Fellow Writers! I have a share - it’s called “Little Bits”
She walks into the house
stands in the kitchen.
Hello? Where is everyone?
She stands alone
Looking around her
For a piece of her
Anywhere, anywhere at all, any little bit
Nothing
Disconnected
Sterile
Where is she?
There is no sign of her anywhere.
Then, the party starts
The house is full
Laughter, drinks, delicious foods, the comforting smell of hot coffee, joking, debating, cards and board games, music
She luvs it all
She lives for these days
She finds little bits of herself scattered about
In the eyes of others
In the embrace of others
She finds herself
Safety in numbers.
She can find herself in this room
Reflected in others.
Then, the party is over
The house, empty
Half full Coca-Cola cans left behind
Laughter silenced
Games, back in their drawers
Smells of drink and food put away
She, put away.
Alone, she stands in the kitchen.
Looking for little bits of herself
Nowhere to be seen
Alone
Sterile
Empty
She doesn’t find herself
She doesn’t feel herself,
Until the next party.
“Not Pictured” - a haiku created from the Measuring a Year Lesson 1.3 of Winter Writing Sanctuary
No photos of the anguish
A mother’s pilgrimage is isolate
She is the wind
THE WORST DAY
Getting off the tube at St Paul's
Following the intermittent signs
To St Bartholomew's Hospital.
Finding the right ward.
Walking slowly down the row of beds.
Then seeing him.
Hiding the shock and worry
At his thinness, his hollows,
His teeth grown suddenly too large.
Summoning a smile and small talk
To cover over the fear,
Reducing enormity to mundane.
The word “terminal”
Quickly, brushed aside by both,
Searching for the bright side.
Exhausted, spent and listless,
Leaving him to rest,
Promising to return soon.
There is a special courage
In facing your own death
That gives hushed dignity.
There is a different courage
In visiting the beloved, dying,
Digging deep to mirror their fortitude.
Some words that came out during the final bonus meditation of the course:
I feel beauty, like a tangible thing. It creeps up on me unawares, a flower petal slipped unnoticed into the palm of my hand. I experience the scent of colour, the sound of softness, the texture of a shaft of light beaming through the clouds. I caress it gently. It yields, yet is strong. It fills me with a gladness and a sadness. My heart expands with the feel of it, the taste of it. My being opens to the sound of it, responding to its call.
An angel speaks to me now, its words the light of sunrise glistening above a far distant horizon, on its breath the scent of an infant’s hair. An angel caresses me now, its touch the tender gaze of a loved one in the morning. An angel moves me now, our dance the soft spring rains containing the first promises of summer. An angel lifts me up and gently places me on my path, the way ahead a vast beam of light shining forth from the centre of my being, the light of the fire that burns in the cave of my heart, brighter than the sun, softer than the sound of the dawn, lighting my way forward, forever, and backward, forever, with me, around me, in me. I am the light of life that lights the way. I am the light that never goes out. I take one step, two steps, forward on my path, generating light, emitting light, being light.
I often forget. I often forget that beauty is everywhere, to be felt viscerally, available to us at all times. Not just to appreciate but to feel and live and light our way. Beauty is love is life is us.
A winter haiku:
Memories of joy and sadness
hung upon the tree
in tinsel and lights and baubles.
3 Winter Haiku
Tuck the blanket in tight
Safe and warm in the chair by the window
Outside, the storm rages on
————————————————-
Dancing along the bare branches,
The Robin Red Breast parades his sun,
Vivid against the grey sky
—————————————————
Clouds of breath amidst Icy air,
A deserted field under a blanket of snow.
Green shoots! Spring is near!
How to measure a Life.
This is what came through for me when thinking about my day to day as an Acupuncturist.
Service completed
Lives touched
moments shared
souls bared
authentic voice
sharing and caring
kindness and love
witnessing a moment
forging your own way
off the beaten track
singing the song inside of you
listening, holding space for another
Unconditional love - always
For our fellow humans
A sense of belonging
part of the bigger whole
connected in soul
openness and warmth
surrender to a few
respect and strength
resilience and the ability to never give up
to laugh loudly
to shine brightly.
My first attempt at a Haiku ...
ancient log
Oak intoxicates
Smouldering fireplace.
Greetings fellow writers! I finally took an evening to complete the rest of the Winter Writing Sanctuary. I wanted to see if completing a bunch of lessons might create the space for a breakthrough. My story around 1 word (Day 8) was long and is perfect for adding to one of the fantasy novel MSs I am working on right now. Here is an excerpt:
"Into the silence , Julia offered a greeting, "hello?" she said softly, and listened for an answer. As her other foot touched the floor, piano music began to fill the hall, drowning out the sounds of the hearth fire. Shy of interrupting the musician playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, she stepped backward to face the staircase.
Julia placed a hand on the banister and lifted her foot to the first step. She felt a strange tug forward. S he was always drawn to books an loved reading, but this felt other-worldly. Was this place enchanted? Was there a book in the stacks seeking her? Or were all of the bookshelves together drawing her to them?
Julia climbed the stairs slowly at first, but her pace quickened as she drew closer to the upper room. When she reached the top stair, a black cat sat purring and a vellichor enveloped her as she looked at the books on the shelves. T hey were all ancient - first editions printed hundreds of years ago. Their smell reminded her of her grandfather, a retired professor of linguistics at Harvard..."
For Day 10's lesson titled "Connection," Both of my written story blurbs are fictional, neither truly memoir material, but it was super fun thinking how I could be connected to the person I chose as my random human I'd crossed paths with. So, here is my blurb for a novel:
"A tall, handsome, dark-haired youth named Michel walks into the UU church to serve as guest pianist where Tina sings in the choir. When they begin exchanging childhood memories over mugs of cocoa at a cafe, they discover a connection that has the power to change their lives in unimaginable ways."
For the bonus meditation, here is what came up:
"Yum! The aroma of melting chocolate is rich, more chocolatey than it has ever smelled before, and fills my heart with joy. My whole body wants to eat it up, to climb into a tub of it and soak in the chocolate through my thin skin of mist. Lemon smells more lemony, too, as I soak in its essence, luxurious like lemon chiffon pie.
The scent of mine smells fresher than ever, making my whole body tingle. I can feel the breeze rustling the pine branches travel in waves across my skin. It's refreshing coolness renews my spirit, cleanses my body of woes. The bark of trees fells alive. It pulses, like the sap that flows through them...
Snowflakes land on me and melt to mush. I can feel each splat as they become one with my skin and clothes.
The sun warms me like a newborn in an incubator. Am I being baked as I lay in the sand? A sea breeze riding on waves moves across me and cools my skin once again. I am ready to drop my feet into the cool pool at the base of the waterfall before me. The spray from the thundering sheets of water caresses my face.
I know I'll sleep well tonight. All of these impressions are preparing me...they are an initiation into a new chapter of my life.
Finally, here is a poem I wrote today. It was "inspired" by the worship associate for our UU service lighting our "cost of war" candle for peace. It springs from wanting to write a spoken word piece about the fallout I'm experiencing from my divorce of a year ago.
"What Is This War?"
What is war but one person
Beating to dust another person
Just because they are there?
It is war you wage against your enemies,
Whom you once called your wife and child,
When all we want is to be free.
You wield the legal system
Like a weapon of war,
Using it to cast your enemies
Into the cold, dark Winter night
Without a home or food or friends.
Your hate knows no bounds,
It just pounds and pounds and pounds.
Even if you blow your enemies to dust
With your tough mind and calloused heart,
We shall rise like the Phoenix,
Forgiving you for your misguided deeds,
Because letting go is the path
To Liberation.
I'm still working my way through the lessons and I'm really enjoying the experience. I am willing myself to create a practice, but giving myself the grace to let it bloom as it will. Tiny steps forward still move me in the direction I'm trying to go.
One Word - J
"Offing"
Here I am again. I have moved away from my beloved ocean. Mind you, not so far that I can't drive an hour to get here. Here in the offing. I am delighted there is a place waiting for me by the side of the road. I park and slip off my ballet shoes (I have an official meeting later), and the minute my toes touch the sand, I know I'm home. It is the winter beach. Only two people are here. I make three. A man bent over a bucket collecting the gray rocks smoothed by waters and tossed ashore by winter. (I can almost hear the ocean say: "you rest here and I will see you again when the summer crowds appear.) The man looks like a gardener in his large brimmed straw hat, and I imagine his rocks will grace a beautiful garden (at least, I hope so). As I walk a little closer to the water's edge, I am taken in by the girl. She is sitting on a rumbled blanket, her long brown hair curling unruly and hiding her face. She has brought her lunch and she is sharing it (perhaps there are four of us here?). I quietly walk off to the side so as not to disturb. Ah, the fourth of us is a seagull, tucked deeply and comfortably in the sand, kindly receiving her small offerings. Just a girl and a seagull. Just a man and his rocks. Just me in the offing of coming back home.
Thank you xx
Day #5:
I am constantly stripping. It's a full time, overtime unpaid job fo for me. Never ending. Why?
I started down this journey to be lighter and free. Living in hope of this feeling. Knowing that life is meant to be experienced without limitations. To be enjoyed.
Instead, it has been a life of deep dark excavating. The fight, the torment, the pain. All leading to sadness, weakness, loneliness, and helplessness.
Allowing for it to come up and out
Allowing it a voice
Allowing it to breathe
Moving it through me and out of me
You feel the possibility of lightness. And you are back, that feeling that know, you've always known is unnecessary
You move through it again
You try. You don't stop trying
You excel at being the tryer
Is it worth it?
Has it been worth it?
Some days
but...how does one do this?
There are so many methods, so many possibilities
Choices
Which one and within that, how again?
I used to feel guilty for one of the ways not working out for me or something not feeling quite right but in the end it isn't necessarily about that thing/ way lasting for a lifetime. It's okay that it doesn't. If it did, maybe we wouldn't have found the next thing or the thing after that. Perhaps comparable to relationships in some ways?
Do that thing that scares you into complete meltdown
Do it slowly
Do it once every 6 months if thats how your nervous system currently copes
Be the love, mother, sinner for yourself
Eat the indulgent food and that glass of wine but be conscious of it. Sit with the why - before, during or after but sit with it and you will find your way.
You'll keep finding your way. One step after the other
and you'll more than likely go through hell and heavily question WTF you have put yourself through but you'll keep going for your perfect 'illusion' of freedom.
Try all the tricks, all the habits.
Keep moving, keep smiling to create all the space.
It will all slot into place when you are in a place to open and ready to ready to receive.
(For my Flow Dance family: one dance after the other)
Invitation J:From one word(vellichor)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/from-one-word-i-travel-oceans?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Invitation L: connected
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/connections?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Invitation N :Reflecting what kind of writing exercises work for you
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/reflection?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Here are 2 excerpts from my Day 6 writing:
The trees at the labyrinth speak to me of Connection. They encourage me to write...to pour myself like water from a chalice onto the paper, a vessel ready to receive me...and transmute my words into enchanting butterflies 🦋 that land on shoulders.
Light dances with shadows at the other end of this underground passage I find myself in...liquefying like a caterpillar 🐛 in a chrysalis.
Invitation E: the year gone by(2023 courage picart portrait and art)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/the-worst-day-of-2023?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Invitation L – Connected (‘blurb for the book’)
When a full shopping bag is left behind at the small, local party shop, no one thinks anything of it. Well, other than how tasty the items from the bakery smell in there! Until it isn’t claimed and on checking the bag, the cashier, Mary, discovers a bloodied carving knife and knuckle duster, wrapped in paper at the bottom!
When the police are called, the morning’s customers are now all suspects and must give their accounts.
Natasha had only popped in to buy a card for her Dad’s Birthday but was there when the bag was first spotted, next to the till where she stood. Can she prove her innocence?
And if the bag isn’t hers, whose bag is it and, more importantly, whose blood is on the knife?
Can Natasha and Mary get to the bottom of the crime and find the real criminal before the police have to put a face to the crime, whether they’re guilty or not?
For Lesson 2.5 I decided to do as Beth suggested and write about belonging. It has been on my mind a lot lately. I heard Brene Brown say " I belong to me." and have been thinking of it ever since. That statement inspired me to write this:What is belonging? I say.
Where do I belong?
I ask her daily and I long to hear the answer.
Continuously searching, at times vigilant.
Storming in and staking claim.
Other times hiding. Holding back.
Unwilling to let go of not good enough.
Back and forth the pendulum swings.
Where do I belong? I ask again.
Longing for the wisdom I know is here.
Slowing. Being.
“Over here”, she whispers. I’m listening.
“I belong to me.” Holding not grasping.
Uncovering and believing,
With nurturing and allowing.
Belonging begins with me.
Reflecting on what kind of exercises work for me - Invitation N Winter Writing Sanctuary @Beth Kempton
I feel so enthused to write daily; although it might not be possible daily I’m thrilled to know enthusiasm again. I feel a new longing to write without the expectations attached. I have more freedom and less judgement of myself. Here is my cinquain to sum up my experience. With much gratitude to you Beth❤️
Enthused.
Sparked again to
Write. My renewed longing
Feels possibilities are ripe
To write❤️
I feel enthusiastic to write daily too.Love your reflection and insights!
Invitation J: From one word(no two)
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/offing-and-abluxion?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
I'm way behind... suffering with chronic migraine and haven't been well but feeling the urge to write and create for the last month or two. So, I signed up for @BethKempton WWS course. I finally was able to journey through the intro and first lesson and can't wait to take this in at my own pace. I love it so far. Thank you.
My first Haiku - unsure but it was fun. I take a lot of long walks alone and so this may be something I want to develop.
Mist of morning clings close
A hush of snowflakes falling
And then a bird sings her song
you are on time,keep writing!
While cleaning out a very snowy paddock and horse shed- I thought I would try out the Haiku exercise. The horses aren't the only ones dreaming of warmer days!
Windy winter day.
Horses turn tails to the storm.
Dreaming of spring grass.
Invitation H – Déjà Vu
I had been there before... The certainty sprung to mind in a flash. More slowly I absorbed the pictures around me, the sounds, smells and even a taste; a taste of salty air. I knew them all, I recognised them all. I had been there before.
But when? I didn’t recall the experience. City life was all I knew; all I had ever known. My experience of the seaside was purely through the TV and films, the nearest beach was several states away! And yet, I did know this. When had it happened? Was it a memory? I did not know when from.
“See?” she asked.
I blinked, stumbling in my thoughts, before registering her at my side.
The lady who had knocked on my door only a few hours ago, but had before been unknown. The woman who had somehow persuaded me not to leave for work, to miss my meetings and let down my clients at the last minute, and instead listen to her and join her in this life-changing experience she talked of.
Flicking her unruly, curling, long hair away from her eyes, she’d said she’s tracked me down. It had taken her my lifetime. I hadn’t put out enough signals – signals? – she said, for her to find me sooner.
A strange lady. Not like me. I wore my sharp suit, clean and business-ready. She wore a long dress with flower print and tassels to the bottom. It looked older, dirty and stained, and diminished with wear. A hippy, that was what sprung to mind.
My eyes closed, I breathed in deeply. I could still taste and smell it; the air. She was right. But how? How could I have been here before?
I didn’t believe in God, the power of the universe, ghosts and ghouls, or spirits in heaven and beyond. I was not the person to believe in souls continuing on to multiple lives, to believe in reincarnation.
I opened my eyes. It was all still there.
Now, in the distance I saw a small figure on the beach. Black, silhouetted against the sun. But, the shape, the person, felt familiar. My heart fluttered. A knowing, a recognition, a heart wrenching and all encompassing feeling of... love?
Then, I heard it; his laughter caught on the air. It floated over to me.
My heart clenched.
I knew it to be true then. For, I knew this child. My son, my love, from a time long before...
An Ode to my father-in-law;
The unique flavour of your human form was one of deep love, celebration of life and lots of laughter!
The era of which you inhabited demanded great efforting for you and yet one of your greatest strengths was something I like to refer to as ‘specialing’.
Your face always lit up in a smile that said, “I’m pleased to see you!”
A kind of beam full of pride and gratitude.
It gave you a unique sparkle with enough to go round that it peppered your guests, as if to say,
“you’re special, and I’m honoured to know you!”
Invitation G:making space
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/clearing-building-a-space?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Invitation G:making space
https://open.substack.com/pub/reensaraiandafter/p/making-space?r=1r3wzz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true
Invitation F: How do you measure a life?
When your time has come to leave this plane
What do you think they'll say?
Will they talk about your achievements
Awards and accolades?
Will they talk about your gorgeous house
A real architectural display?
Will they talk about your bank accounts
A millionaire, self-made?
They could, they might
But I suspect
They'll talk about your light
The way that you held others up
And made their day more bright
The smiles and the hugs you gave
How you'd laugh all through the night
They'll talk about the love you had
For everything in sight
I have never once considered myself a poet, or even someone who 'gets' poetry, but this course is really changing my mind on that! It's far more fun to write poetry than I ever expected.
Invitation J: From one word
Vellichor: The nostalgia and temporality of used bookstores
Deep in the slightly dusty heart of the bookshop there was a chair. It was upholstered in a dusky pink softness, frayed a little at the edges and it rested on 4 solid, slightly bent legs braced against an imaginary weight. Around it, the shelves of books grew outwards, beginning with the fertility of Fiction K-P, developing into Poetry: World and retreating towards the dimly glimpsed History: Military.
Most days, at around 12.30, the door to the bookshop would open with a practised ease and a youngish man would enter. Usually dressed in beige, he tended towards a Macintosh and tie, although he was probably no more than 30. He had a tired, slightly crumpled look about him, but on entering he de-creased somewhat, ironed out as if the scent of the books smoothed his day and soothed his restless energy. He would nod to the proprietor, who barely glanced up, and head for the world of fiction that was waiting for him, a glittering inner world of outer dust.
He liked to take his time, to touch the books with his fingertips and every so often to lean in to sniff - just oh so delicately like a quivering pig’s whisper - the hint of the world and the book’s place in it, that musky suggestion of mystery that second hand books wear like a jacket.
Once a book was selected he would sink his restless beigeness into the pale pink fuzz of the chair and let his fingers idle through the pages - a delicate game of seduction, although it was never clear who was seducing who. Drawn in by their smell, by the comforting weight of the pages and, above all, by the promise of a passage to another consciousness, another life, he would take a deep breath and relax into the act of reading. He seemed so suitably suited to the shop - his creased, beige demeanor reflecting thee rows of - mostly - brown spines, while the pink chair peeking from beneath him suggested the fleshy inner worlds of Fiction K-P. His habitual presence was complicit in a world of passion between the dull protective covers.
He was always alone, Mr Beige, if you didn’t count his internal world. He never nodded goodbye to anyone at the door, never entered or left with anyone else. It was always just him and then the books; the books and their past; both he and the books with their hidden, giddy present.
And then one day he wasn’t there. And then another day. And another and another until his absences joined together to make the usualness of time. And while he had only been one man, Mr Beige, only one customer, there was a space that only he had ever filled - an unread story with dusty brown edges enclosing a restless softness. He left behind a faint memory in the air and the merest suggestion of a mystery, captured for a moment in the soft, frayed chair with the bent legs.
Hi Beth and everyone,
I want to thank you so much Beth for this lovely winter writing sanctuary. I only finished it today as I have been running a bit behind (whatever that means!) I found you last year but I only managed to complete half the course! Throughout the year I have read your books and listened to your podcast. I was delighted to discover your Christmas one!
This year, after a particularly difficult end to the year I decided to commit fully and finish this sanctuary no matter what! And I have!! With the help of your prompts I have produced some lovely musings on topics I never thought to write about. I have been introduced to Substack - which being a social media/internet avoider (as much as is possible anyway) I may not have found and have been introduced to the idea of personal essays as not only a way to get to know myself better but to help others too.
I am absolutely delighted to say that you have given me the idea to combine my two loves. I have just launched my own holistic pregnancy and birth coaching business and am going to use my new writing practice to reach my audience and show them a little of what I do and what I am about! Saying this out loud lights a little spark in me that I don't remember feeling since I was a teen! Who know, maybe I will gather such a collection of essays that I will write a whole book one day! I hope so. I hope to meet you again on this, my new writing path, even if just in another writing sanctuary. Below is the link to my brand new Substack and my first published piece of writing that I wrote in the Sanctuary!
With much love and gratitude.
https://open.substack.com/pub/serenitymums/p/threshold-moment-becoming-a-mother
Lesson 2.1 Invitation G
Stripping something away
Everything was gone, burned away by the fire of life. I sat in ruins, shaken to the core, asking what had happened? The life I had carefully built for myself was gone, the marriage I had found myself in was in tatters, my dreams and hopes, burned, my passion withered. We had
been through so much loss, so much sacrifice, that all that remained of my life had been stripped away.
He is as a fire, burning the chaff of our lives, tearing through and pulling out all the weeds, extras, selfishness or self-centeredness, the greed, the glory, idolization. It stands no chance against His fire, it goes up in smoke as soon as He draws near. We are dead, yet we are made alive in Him.
It felt very vulnerable. I didn’t know what was left of me, or what I even wanted to be left. Many times, it felt as if I had been locked out of my life and I couldn’t get back in. The door was locked and I was banging on it, looking through the window, seeing the loveliness of it, but I couldn’t get to it, because it didn’t exist anymore. That was the hardest part. I would have rushed back in my weakness, I would have given in, but it didn’t exist anymore, it was gone, burned on the altar of sacrifice.
My life is not my own. I had lived it, but had I really felt it? I was caught up, clinging on to those dreams, they were mine and I needed them.
What was I without them? But He said, it’s me. It was only ever me.
And so there I sat in ruination, my life burning around me. There were some deep cries, some wailing, my heart felt broken. There was confusion, Why God? and Where do I go now?
Yet in my deep sorrow, morning came. It wasn't the kindof morning where it bursts into birdsong and light. It was the kindof morning, that creeps gently from deep black darkness, to a warm pink. There are still many shadows, there is still ice on the ground and the birds are hesitant to begin fully singing. If you were to wake up at this point, you’d think, oh its still night. But if you’d been up to see the real blackness, the kind that you feel you are going to sink into and the silence before the animals are up, you’d know this was morning. You’d know that light has come, regardless of the lingering shadows.
And so it rebuilds. The house of sand is swept away and the house on the rock, the imperfect house, with its door too wide and no insulation on the windows. It doesnt have a couch yet to be fully comfortable, but it's there. It's being built and it's staying put. And when tragedy hits, worse
than ever before, it stands. It may sway, it may get hurt, battered, bruised, but it wont fall. The house on the hill stands tall and shines with the bright light within.