This is the fourth year I’ve gathered with my group of like-minded, creative friends, and every year I find myself more blessed by our time together. Each person here is so uniquely gifted and blessed, and I learn so much from them. My soul is nourished, and I find myself lost in my craft.
Today I finished my e-book. Stay tuned, because my hope is to have it published within the next few weeks.
This year, each one of us has new ventures that we are developing, and during the quiet hours of the day, we’re deepening our skills, supporting one another in our respective crafts, and sharing delicious meals filled with conversation and laughter.
It’s truly inspiring to be here, and I find myself more and more wanting to pull other women into this fold. It’s a dream that’s turning into a goal, and this weekend is fanning the flame.
As I go back to my work, I’ll leave you with a few photos of our days here. I’ve been so focused on my book that I haven’t spent much time photographing our amazing, Southern California surroundings, nor have I been overly drawn to blogging. My brain has been fully engaged in this one project, and I’m so thrilled to have finished it today.
So without further ado, I give you Scenes from a Creative Retreat
Here’s the thing – the baby weight gain thing is kicking me in the tail this time around. Not that I’m gaining more weight than I did with any of the other three, but rather that I seemed to have…ahem…spread out a bit more this time around.
Awesome.
My original due date was September 19, but after the 20 week ultrasound, the technician felt we needed to push the due date back to September 30. Because I apparently offended her somehow upon walking into the room. Or maybe she just hates pregnant women?
Hard to say, really.
So if anyone asks me when I’m due, I will give the oh-so-vague reply, “Some time in September. Mid to Late. Hopefully closer to mid than late.” It’s not a cool answer. I can’t even tell you for sure how many weeks along I am. 25? 26? 27?
WHO KNOWS?!
At this point, I’m starting to wonder if this pregnancy may, in fact, be a permanent condition.
Earlier this week, three different women asked me if I was having twins. “Are you sure?” one of them replied when I told her no. Well, my new friend, now I’m not. Maybe one of them is good at hide and seek? Who can be sure of such things, really? Based on how quickly I’ve grown from cute little bump to MASSIVE MELON-BALL BELLY, perhaps I’ve spontaneously and miraculously begun growing triplets.
If that were to happen to anyone, it would be me.
Other than already being uncomfortable, and wondering how on earth I’m going to make it another 13-15 weeks, things are going relatively smoothly. I haven’t slept well in a week, which I attribute to a potential hormone surge by baby girl. Because carrying girl babies tends to put me through the ringer.
I don’t have any big cravings this time around, although my car did steer itself into a McDonald’s Drive-Thru today, and the possessed pregnant side of my brain ordered a chocolate milkshake. I tried to talk her out of it, but the urge was ultimately too great to ignore.
That was the best chocolate milkshake I’ve ever eaten.
Amen.
I leave on Wednesday for California for a week with my tribe, my fellow creatives who gather yearly to spur one another on toward our passions and goals. When thinking about the trip, I feel near giddy with excitement. But when thinking of the plane ride across country to get there, I feel suddenly light-headed and nauseous.
I mentioned the fact that I’m carrying a large watermelon in my midsection, right?
Two weeks after that trip, we will pile into our (smokin’ hot) minivan for a road trip north. Hours upon hours in a car with a 15 pound watermelon in my gut (that also happens to kick me repeatedly in the bladder…yay me) sounds a bit like a torture chamber, but whatever. It will make the time pass quicker, and time passing means that soon I won’t be pregnant anymore.
Unless, of course, my suspicions are true and I really am going to be pregnant for the rest of time.
I sound like I’m complaining, don’t I?
That’s because I am. Humor me, please?
It’s not all horrible, to be sure. There are moments that I enjoy. I do love feeling the baby kick. It’s really magical to feel those bumps and know that life is growing inside me. I won’t ever lose the awe of that experience.
Other than that, though, meh…I’m over it.
Keeping my eye on the prize is the only thing motivating me to power forward. Well, that and the fact that I have no choice. There’s a sweet baby girl waiting at the finish line, so I’m choosing to focus on her, and I am really, really excited to meet her.
Sometime in the next 13-15 weeks…hopefully closer to 13 than 15.
Not really, but it certainly feels like I blinked my eyes and went from wide-eyed dreamer to coffee slogging Mama, and the years in between sometimes blend together in a humorous reel of days-gone-by.
I remember sixteen well. It was all angst and Alanis Morisette. It was simultaneously knowing exactly what I wanted to do with my life while having no clue what I would do with my life. Sixteen was ripped jeans and boys – toe rings and too much make up. Sixteen was the world at my fingertips without a care in the world, and stress at all the unknowns that seemed to loom before me.
Sixteen was the first time I dreamed of becoming a writer.
The pages of my journal fluttered as I poured out stories, heartache, disappointment and hope. I wrote poems and songs (bad ones, all of them). I wrote short stories and devotionals. I wanted my life to mean something. I wanted to leave a legacy, but at sixteen I didn’t really know what a legacy was.
I thought it meant fame, and maybe a little fortune thrown in for good measure. Legacy sounded like my name in glittering lights. It sparkled with possibility, flashed with grandeur.
This is what I thought it meant: To be inspired, I would have to be an inspiration. I would become someone that others (the world, perhaps?) would look to and think, “Wow. She’s got it going on.”
Then I grew up, and somehow growing up seemed to take a longer time than it should have. I quit looking for confirmation of my gifts in whether or not people knew my name, and I started simply living the life that stood before me in the day to day. I quit looking for the approval of the world, and accepted the approval of One.
I quit seeking to be an inspiration. Instead, I simply looked to be inspired.
Inspired: outstanding or brilliant in a way or to a degree suggestive of divine inspiration.
The word “inspired” can be a bit ambiguous. I mean, what does it actually mean to live an inspired life? The sixteen-year-old me thought for sure she knew – that girl with the Sun-In blonde hair, torn hippie jeans, and clunky Doc Martens. She knew – knew – that her life would be inspired, and thus an inspiration.
Bless her.
The thirty-six-year-old version of me is less sure of the meaning behind living inspired, but I have some thoughts. I’ve traded my hippie jeans for a pair of yoga pants, and my Doc Martens for a more practical pair of flip flops, and I’ve traded my over-confidence in the area of living inspired for a more humble approach to seeking inspiration.
I do still enjoy a little Alanis Morisette, though. For old time’s sake…
– God, the Master Creator, has painted this world with inspiration beyond anything that we, in our human capabilities could ever hope to create, and yet in His goodness, He’s given each of us the ability to tap into His creative powers. It is because of His inspiration that we are able to live inspired. Inspiration is divine.
– We are each created with an innate ability to draw inspiration from our daily surroundings. Yesterday I got my hair done (no more Sun-In for me, thankyouverymuch), and as my friend, and hair stylist, colored my hair I marveled at her ability to create.
“Hair stylists are artists,” I said as she literally painted strokes in my hair. “You’re just using a different canvas.”
Inspiration comes in all forms, not just in the arts. The greatest inventors in history were inspired to create. Advances in medicine are inspired by the great minds of science. All people are inspired – the canvas on which we create is just different.
– Inspiration is innate. You can’t force someone to live a life inspired because “it is suggestive of divine inspiration.” As a mother, I find that my job is not to inspire my children, but to point them toward inspiration. Through the act of creating, of reading, of playing, of laughing, of living, of exploring, of loving, my children will see and feel the inspiration of the Creator.
It will be divine, this inspiration, not manufactured by me, but presented in the world around them.
My job is simply to get out of the way, and let them live inspired.
How do you seek, and find, inspiration on a day to day basis? Is it through nature, through reading, through study…through Alanis Morisette? You can be honest – I won’t judge.
This post was written by my dear friend, soul sister, and my creative partner, Wendy. A week from today, I will be on a plane to California for our annual Creative Retreat – a time to gather with other like minded women seeking to glorify God with these gifts that He’s given us. I am thankful for her wise words. Please welcome her!
There is a time and a place for therapy.
When a muscle is strained, there’s physical therapy; for the patient who’s undergone a stroke, speech therapy; children with physical delays need occupational therapy; and those held in emotional bondage benefit from psychotherapy.
Photo courtesy of Wendy Speake.
My dear friend, and author of this blog, is in need of a little therapy right now. Even as I write, Kelli is flying home from an intense weekend with family. After receiving the devastating news that a loved one is battling an aggressive form of cancer, each family member came together for the deep heart therapy that can only be done in one another’s presence.
The Stuart Family lifted up their beloved patriarch with prayer therapy, before Kelli’s father-in-law began chemotherapy. Now all the Stuarts have scattered back to their own cities and little families again. How difficult I imagine it will be for Kelli and Lee to not be with their loved ones during the days ahead. Which is why therapy must continue.
Prayer Therapy: Those who know and love Kelli and her family, I beseech you to pray for them during this time. Pray for the healing of her father-in-law, wisdom for his doctors, comfort and peace for Lee’s mother and siblings, and lift up the grandchildren… as the sting of illness and the reality of heaven sets in.
Photo Courtesy of Tammy Labuda Photography.
Friendship Therapy: We desperately need friendship when our hearts pump hard to comprehend our circumstances. There are seasons of grief when we pull away; retreating into prayer closets, lifting up our hands in private worship. But a time comes when friends must join in the retreat.
“Retreat: A movement away from danger, back along the original route.”
Photo courtesy of Tammy Labuda Photography
How appropriate that Kelli and I are hosting our annual Creative Retreat at my home in one week’s time – Our safe place to move away from danger, and find our path again.
Sitting in my backyard yesterday, creating watercolors with my children, I thought of Kelli, and sent her a text: Let’s do some watercolor therapy when you come. She responded: I agree.
Water clear and paint brush dry
Blank canvas ‘neath the western sky
Young woman sitting all alone
Breaks silence with a subtle moan
Bare shoulders kissed by heavens sun
She lifts her eyes, bids healing come
Picks up the brush, then comes undone.
Photo courtesy of Wendy Speake.
Ironically, or not at all, Kelli sojourned to my home for last year’s retreat, after the heartbreak of her unfruitful adoption. She retreated to my front porch, blindsided and raw.
Prayers and friendship mingled with food, adventures, laughter and late nights, as healing took place.
Photo courtesy of Tammy Labuda Photography
Sometimes the therapy a heart needs most is to RETREAT.
Retreat into the healing, dry climate of Southern California’s hills, and the quiet of a backyard, and the rhythmic movement of a paintbrush.
If you are hurting today, which many of us are, I encourage you to retreat, to find refuge, and to dwell in the shelter of the Most High.
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler. You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day… (Psalm 91:1-16)
Before my first trip to Belarus as a fifteen-year-old, I, along with the rest of our team, went through extensive training on how to travel overseas. We learned behavioral differences between our country and others (Americans are loud), we learned how to properly and respectfully address the people we would meet, the rules for public transportation, and how to react to a plate of jello filled with sardines if it was placed before you.
Hint: Don’t make gagging noises and push it away. Act normal, swallow hard, and prepare for a culinary adventure.
By the time we left, we were fully ready to conquer the world, and for the most part we did a great job. There were a few instances, of course, when our American senses would overwhelm and we’d let out a shriek of excitement only to be met with the tsks of a nearby Babyshka. And really, no matter how hard you try, you couldn’t parade a group of 15-18 year old Americans down a Belorussian sidewalk in 1994 and not expect some sort of gawking.
Mostly, though, we handled ourselves well. Until that one day…
We made a stop in Frankfurt, Germany on our way home. It was a day and a night to decompress and explore. We grabbed our monstrous, rolling suitcases after making it through customs and in a long line, we made our way to the train that would take us to our hotel.
But there was a problem. We had to get down a long, very narrow escalator in order to get to the train. Perhaps, looking back, wisdom would have dictated that maybe we find an elevator that would better accommodate our bags, but we were running late, so we were instructed to turn our bags sideways and go down.
Only the first person in the group missed the instruction about turning the bag sideways.
He got to the bottom of the escalator and stepped off, but his bag did not budge. It was wedged tight. He yanked and pulled and in the meantime, the person behind him tried to step up and over his bag, only to lose her bag behind her in the process.
On and on it went with each of us trying to dive over the now growing pile of baggage, piling up like the players in a really bad, painfully humiliating rugby match. The ever moving escalator continued to propel everyone behind us downward, though some of the smart ones turned and fought the current to get back to the top.
It was the most hysterical mess as we all tumbled to the bottom, then slowly began to disentangle the unfortunate bags. We brushed ourselves off, held our heads high, and made our way to the train trying to communicate that we weren’t always this cool.
These last few days have felt like another ride on that fateful escalator. As one “bag” after another piled up at the bottom, I could see the mound approaching, and I hoped I could leap over it.
I tripped and fell yesterday. It all hit me. The stress of a job change, last minute flights to Arkansas that had to be changed into last minute flights to Houston for job interviews. Last day of school. Cancer diagnosis.All of life piled up before me, and instead of gracefully leaping over it, I fell miserably, a hyperventilating, panicked mess of a woman who thought she could hold it together.
It’s my fault, really. I forgot I’m pregnant, and that emotions when pregnant tend run a little…um…hotter than normal. I forgot to sleep, and I didn’t eat properly. I tried to do everything, and to be everyone to all my people. I wanted to be the strong one – the one who held it together.
Instead I’m the one who had a panic attack in the school parking lot.
I’m better today. It’s a new day, and releasing a lot of the pent up fears and heartache helped to dislodge the baggage waiting to trip me up. That’s the problem with keeping everything squelched up inside. It’s like trying to fit an oversized rolling bag on an undersized escalator.
It’s bound to cause a fall.
Are you feeling overwhelmed today? Is there a mound of life piling up before you? Before you try to jump over it, can I encourage you to call a friend, or meet with someone face to face who will let you unload some of the emotions?
Trust me – you will much prefer that to hyperventilating in a parking lot. I’m not always this cool, folks…
Here’s to a restful, balanced, baggage free weekend.
Last week I wrote of Love, and of the beautiful, mysterious pain that accompanies such a surrender of emotion. When I typed those words, I formed them in the context of watching my child graduate kindergarten. They were framed in the knowledge that Love requires separation, and in my innocent state of mind, I could only see the separation of parent and child that comes through space and time.
Then we got the phone call no one wants to receive.
There was a mass. The biopsy reveals cancer. We wait and we pray, and we hope for the best – the miracle of healing. Today the confirmation brought unwelcome news.
Stage 4. Metastatic.
Suddenly the pain of Love grew wings and took flight. Lee’s dad – our patriarch, our hero, our mentor, and a steady spiritual guide – now faces a fight that, short of a miraculous touch from God Himself, will result in his passing from this life on earth and into the gates of heaven.
“…Now it may surprise you to learn that in His (God’s) efforts to get permanent possession of a soul, He relies on the troughs even more than on the peaks;some of His special favorites have gone through longer and deeper troughs than anyone else.” C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
There is no irony in our present circumstance. We cannot point to these days with a flippant laugh and label them a coincidence. For on the very day we got news that cancer had invaded one we loved, Lee was in process to make a transition at work.
His division was cut loose from the company. We’d known this for weeks, and while the news was met with some disappointment, suddenly it seemed that he had lost his job for such a time as this.
Severance gives him a cushion to absorb the blow of his father’s illness. We have the freedom to leave, he and I, for the weekend, and fly to Arkansas where we will fold into the arms of his parents and brothers and all face this new challenge in the race together.
What a privilege it is…
When we told our kids of their grandfather’s illness, I felt a tightness pinch my heart. My sweet little ones will now taste the sting of illness. They can no longer be sheltered from the fear of grieving and, given the statistics, they may face the searing pain of death far earlier than I would have wanted them to.
And yet I cannot escape the thought that this journey we are about to walk as a family is a privilege. One thought has rumbled across my heart all day as I’ve processed this pain of a Love torn.
What a privilege it is for my children to know the sting of illness and the reality of heaven at a tender age.
We’re gearing up for a road filled with hope and unknowns. We cry out for a miracle, with full belief that God, in His mighty power, is capable of banishing the cancer from Herb’s body with a simple touch of His Hand. We pray for this, that we may show our children the power of God, and proclaim Him to the world.
And yet…
We accept the reality that God may have a different path planned. One in which we must say goodbye far sooner than we ever hoped or imagined or desired. And if this is the path we must follow, we will show our children the power of God, and we will proclaim Him to the world.
Cancer is an ugly word. It sucks the marrow of joy right out of a soul. But we have been given the grace of time. We pray it will be longer than the statistics predict. We pray it will be sweeter than the treatment’s effects. We rejoice in our current state of jobless unknowns, for it gives us the sweet freedom of time to process.
What a privilege it is to walk this road of grief and hope, for in this trough I feel God so near. He is real, a balm to the sting.
My ten year old and I took a walk today. Hand in hand we made our way down the sidewalk, and his sweet innocence blessed me.
“I’m excited to see heaven now,” he said to me, a smile spread across his face. “I can just imagine it, and what I’m imagining is awesome.”
What a privilege it is to walk this pain. We covet your prayers in the days, weeks, and months to come. They will be hard, and they will be sweet. They will mirror the mystery of Love.
Join us in praying for a miracle – no matter what shape it may take.
