afraid of help? seek a supporter, maybe a champion

July 23, 2025 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

sometimes I am afraid of help, of asking for help, of being seeing to need help. my brain will tell me the following: needing help is weakness. it’s showing lack. it’s deficiency. it’s vulnerability. it’s showing a soft underbelly. now someone will know that I don’t know it all, have it all. sometimes it’s not all self-contained and together in here.

and that’s fine to feel afraid. fear is part of life. unfortunately. but we all need to find the right kind of help. not a “helper,” who is using help as a form of control or to externalize their own anxieties about you or about failure or about whatever is going on in their brainscape. and not an I-told-you-so-er. definitely not one of those. but a supporter. the person who comes in and stands beside you, solid, so you can lean as much as you need for as long as you need, and when you’re okay – you’re rested, recovered, reset – the supporter moves out of that position into their usual place in your life. they are back to spouse, friend, cousin, neighbor, co-worker. and you don’t feel like you did something wrong to ask for help. the soft underbelly might be one of their favorite parts of you, in fact. the supporter is there to support. and that’s that.

sometimes the supporter turns out to be a champion. they are just as excited as you are that you are trying something new – taking a risk, being vulnerable and brave. and with each attempt they are solid. your success or failure doesn’t flag their enthusiasm for your enthusiasm. they want to hear your stories of your attempts. they want to revel in the wins and sympathize with the mistakes. and it’s even more special to me if that supporter-turned-champion is an expert at the thing I am just trying out. there is a magic there – and it took me a long while to really allow and then feel that magic.

when an expert admires your first clumsy attempts at the thing they love and know so well. it’s like time folds backwards on itself and they are back at their starting line again, seeing their own beginning steps through your beginner’s eyes. they are seeing it all anew and loving it all again for the first time. your success becomes their success. they are suggesting and supporting out of love. because you are falling in love with their love, and it’s so exciting and beautiful. the help and support and encouragement is real and deep and sincere because they know. they were there a long time ago, taking their first steps just like you are, and they loved it then and they love it now and they want you to be great at it too and love it as much as they do. and nobody says those words aloud. but I feel it when a supporter becomes a champion, my champion. even for a moment.

i’ve felt it for my students they’ve written something beautiful, questioned deeply, lost themselves in a book. I feel awake through their awakeness. and I’ve felt the same when a champion has seen my beginner’s efforts and it lights them up. they are alive in the process and the trying and the growing. the champion is seeing me sing my seeds awake, and they are stepping in to create the harmonies. it’s an inspiration loop. a love loop. for the thing we are working so hard to do, for being in the moment with it, fully immersed. in the truest sense of the word, it is wonderful.

so yes, it is hard to ask for help from people who will help begrudgingly or anxiously or scoldingly. and it’s a moment of miracle when a champion steps forward to support. and when it happens to you, be soft. allow it. let it in. it can be beautiful for both of you.

you ever feel afraid of trying?

July 20, 2025 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

me too. I want to do it right the first time, or pretty close to right, pretty close to the first time. and it’s partially because I want to be good at things and have things turn out the way I want them to turn out. and partially it’s because I don’t want other people to see me trying. this is for several reasons.

some people feel so much when they see you trying – the feelings exude off them. some people feel embarrassed on your behalf. they look away and think, “wow, I’m so glad that’s not me out there trying. I’d look like a fool for trying so hard.” those people have probably been shamed or made fun of at some point for trying, and so the pain of trying is too much, even when someone else is doing the trying. and even when they’re looking away, I feel like I can tell they’re trying not to look.

some people feel angry at your trying. they think that in addition to being an embarrassment, you’re taking up perfectly good space that other people could be using to do the same thing, only better. those people are very hard on themselves, I’d say, and are locked in their own cages of judgment and regrets for trying and not trying. there’s maybe resentment there, as in, why do you get to try and I don’t? I can hear that voice sometimes, coming from the inside.

some people give lots of feedback – lots of “helpful” feedback. I especially don’t like those people. I understand the embarrassed and angry people, because in the past I’ve had those reactions when I’ve seen others trying, and I’ve been around those kinds of people the most growing up. however, the helpful feedback people are also difficult to be around. because there you are, just writing your poem or drawing your picture, dancing your dance or running your race or whatever it might be – happily in the moment, just doing, just trying. and someone sidles up and says, “you know, if you just blah blah blah blah blah.” to help. but you didn’t ask. because part of trying – at least for me and at least in the early stages – is the joy of something new and making mistakes and being okay with that. it’s part of the process to do it wrong and understand how it’s wrong and then adjust and improve. if we forced a flower open too soon or made a baby walk perfectly, no stumbles or falls along the way, then how would they know all the intermediate parts to blooming, to walking?

and that’s when I feel afraid of trying. not because of the actual trying, or because of the process of failure and improvement. sometimes failure is so god-awful it’s sweet or silly, sometimes it’s so close to success it stings. but that’s okay. the fear comes from having to hide or protect my trying from others and their judgments and their offerings of help when I don’t want it. because I want to just try.

so I say this to myself and maybe to you too: step back and let someone try. and let your heart be open to witnessing the sweetness and silliness and sometimes sting of trying and failing. you won’t break if you see someone try and fail. and the person trying won’t either.

there’s somewhere in here for the supporter, or the guide – not the “helper” – but another kind of person who assists the trying. but maybe that discussion is for another day. maybe tomorrow I’ll try to tell you about it.

sometimes heaven is

July 18, 2025 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

just there

behind a golden sunset cloud

in the palm of your

gently outstretched hand

among us on a bright blue

day only sun

with us in

the soil below our feet

– we are forgetful because of

shoes and hurry to be on time –

in the juice of a succulent

fruit

your choice

they’re all a good choice

in a breath of air a sigh

of quiet

wrapped in a laugh your round

and sparkling laugh

sometimes it’s

here

sometimes

it’s you

who are you in the apocalypse?

July 17, 2025 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

okay, so maybe apocalypse is too strong of a word. I googoo’d it and I don’t mean it Biblically, I mean it like a zombie apocalypse, or like that M Night Shyamalan movie The Happening where a phenomenon occurs that threatens the survival of humanity. so in that case, who would you be?

I know one person who said they’d just want to die early on, so they don’t have to deal with the fallout and the struggle to survive. because, according to this person, what would be the point of trying to make it in the after times? I can see what they mean. if the grid goes down and there’s no air conditioning and there’s no internet then why carry on living. that said, boring. also, in a way we are living in an after time. I know many many (many) of us want to forget that we went through a prolonged global end time – dealt with uncertainty, fear, isolation, grief, death, illness that went away and sometimes stayed for a long time – but we did do that. we are in an end time, though a forgotten one.

that said, if you could control the situation a little, at least in your imagination, who would you want to be? what character, what role would you want to play? one of protectors fighting against the threat? a crafty bandit terrorizing the countryside and looting all that traversed your territory? the scientist? a soothsayer? a farmer? a cowboy?

me, I want to be a retired warrior, living down an out-of-the-way, nearly forgotten country road. I’ve concluded a life of combat to live quietly with my animals and plants and books. I sometimes wake up from dreams in a hot sweat, but I can quiet that part of myself when I float in the cool pond nearby or put my feet in the flowing stream on my periodic hunts for winter meat. I would be skilled and storied but only use my skills to protect and provide for myself and my farm, and my stories a guide for my decisions in the present. and maybe. maybe one day a band of adventurers, brave ones, stumble onto my land and I can invite them to pitch their tents outside my home and rest, share supplies and necessary wisdom with them before they continue on. maybe they would ask me to join them and maybe I would consider it. does the old sage, the crone, have value outside of their homestead?

so yep. that’s who I’d be. in the apocalypse. but maybe that’s who I want to be now. skilled, wise, self-sufficient, able to give but not defined by it, centered in nature.

okay now it’s your turn. who would you be?

on the process, from whenever in the past till 16 July 2025

July 16, 2025 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

do you also get the date wrong sometimes? like I thought 2024 as I write today’s date. does it mean anything?

anyway. a recap.

my creative process is slow and needs external deadlines, but deadlines that aren’t too stressful, because if they’re too stressful then I avoid it by cleaning out all the kitchen cabinets or – let’s be real – I freeze and start a new TV series with at least 4 seasons, and then I feel like a failure for not meeting those deadlines and then I remember that I’m the one who made those deadlines, so I can change them at any time because I make the rules around here, and if I make the rules then that’s great I can do what I want like go back to watching TV or napping and also no one’s watching and no one cares which is really sad I should feel bad about that, so what I should do is I should definitely go back to watching TV or napping and that’s sad so sad too. unless. unless I make a deadline.

so that’s what that’s like in here sometimes. and you?

I know I am extremely hard on myself. and also fearful of making mistakes or being bad at something. but when I’m in it, I forget all about that and I’m in the joy of doing. like I just started roller skating and I don’t know how I look – maybe bad because of the people (men) at the roller rink checking in and trying to give me advice about how to do it – but when I’m doing it I don’t care how it looks. because it feels great. and same with doing any other creative thing – listing ideas, writing a poem, even writing this entry. I’m doing it. I’m doing it and I don’t care how it looks because how it feels is so much better.

so I guess. I guess that’s the thing. chase the feeling of being, of being in it. turn the volume up all the way on that. and disregard the rest.

on the process, Feb 5 to Sept 16

September 16, 2024 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

well. this is a ridiculous amount of time to try and describe, let alone summarize. so I won’t. but I can recall some peaks and valleys for you:

lap swim in the deep winter months – the ones where spring seems like a legend or a dream – was renewing; the water reminded me of the need for regularity and rhythm, to sometimes float despite the denseness of the darkness
talks with friends keep me afloat; so many of my dearest people are far far far away, but that is only physical distance, and we can surmount the space with intentions to be together; they give me flashes of warmth and joy
the creation of a home – a physical space that feels like a light landing place after time away – is a creative endeavor, and one that I undertook this summer with some steady focus; it was a long time coming, and now walking through each room, admiring art and the placement of furniture, vases of flowers, small and precious objects, I feel this place and I have arrived somewhere new together
no matter how many strategies and safeguards I think I have in place for my health and well-being, I sometimes fall ill and need help; for me the challenge is in asking for support – I don’t want to burden others – but my loved ones love me back and want to help, and I can accept that aspect of love; more than anything mutual support deepens our relationship and does not burden it
newness is also creation – new experiences, new relationships, they are tender buds that require tending and care; newness is soft and precious and sometimes exceedingly rare and sometimes scarier than I anticipate but it is overall beautiful and vital and the biggest and best part of being alive
at times there is nothing to do but exist, to be present and in the presence of loved ones at a meal or on a walk or under the sun or in the open air, to be present while alone, to be present in a crowd, to be and just be
the fallow times for my writing – and for this book project about Annabelle – feel wrong, but all things need rest, I think; I am returning to it now, just in thoughts, and I think I may try some new and big changes, go back to poetic language, add lists and impressions and focus on emotion and beauty over plot and trust that the reader will let me lead them

so, yes. the process has been meandering but full. we’ll keep trying. everyday anew.

Read Aloud Series, Book 5: The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

February 8, 2024 / Elizabeth / 1 Comment

Oh Edward. He starts out as such an unlikeable character: a three-foot-tall, white china rabbit with a full wardrobe, complete with footwear and hats. He’s also unrelatable since the kids don’t really play with those types of toys anymore. That’s where my own read aloud and storytelling comes in, and I sell it to them a little. They eventually get into it.

Edward is lost at sea, buried in garbage, thrown from a train, and saved from the brink of death. Like Frindle, there is another wonderful twist at the end that has big payoffs for the kids — and they really react when it comes. There’s also a lovely one-page Coda at the end that recaps the entire story plus a little fast-forwarding, which helps to remind the students of Edward’s full journey, inside and out.

One of the best quotes of the book:

“I am done with being loved,” Edward told her. “I’m done with loving. It’s too painful.”

“Pish,” said the old doll. “Where is your courage?”

This is a story that slowly and gently unfolds. It’s about love and regret and finding our way home.

The Read Aloud Series is a review of the series of books I used to read aloud to my third grade students every year after lunch. The exact order and titles changed somewhat over the years, but these are the ones that were most beloved, both for the kids as listeners and for me as the read aloud reader. Many afternoons our 15-minute read aloud time would stretch into 20, 30, sometimes as long as 45 minutes, as the kids begged to hear more of a story, or we discussed what a character did, or I reread difficult passages, or diagrammed family trees and plot lines for them. I can say that my gift as a teacher was, and still is, my enthusiasm for a good story, and these are the books that have brought me a great deal of joy in sharing with young readers over the years.

on the process, Jan 29 to Feb 4

February 5, 2024 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

so, up front: I didn’t write like I said I would. this week I was very tired and so I took off a day from work to rest and I spent an entire day on the weekend just on the couch reading and resting, too. I think that’s what I needed. it’s hard to listen to teenagers (as their teacher) and be calm and supportive and warm and thoughtful and present day after day. so I rested. and today (Monday) was probably one of the best days I’ve had with my students in a long time. do I wish I also had the energy to write and be creative, as well? yes, of course. but that’s all I could manage this week. and I’m learning to be okay with not doing it all.

I did enough. and I will try again tomorrow.

Read Aloud Series, Book 4: Frindle

February 1, 2024February 1, 2024 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

This is a book that the kids kind of don’t like at first. But I ignore that. It’s about school, and a kid in school, and they are kids in school, so it offers no escape. I understand. However, the main character, Nicholas, is a bit naughty and they like that. And I like that some of them try his exact same tactics with me, immediately after finishing a chapter. If I’m paying attention, which I usually am, it doesn’t work. But that means the kids were paying attention, so that worked.

Nicholas is a naughty kid — not in the same way as Jeffrey in There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom — but he’s a bit of a stinker about school, and he devises a plan to annoy his language arts teacher. It grows and grows until it becomes a national movement. The kids are both impressed and unimpressed with that, but we forge ahead. In the final chapters, there is a twist and I love reading it aloud dramatically to see the kids’ expressions as they put it all together, and I close the book and look at their faces and we process what it all means in a bit of silence.

There is something beautiful and intangible about this book. It feels like it’s from another time. It is — it was written in the 90s. But there is a subtle structure built throughout showing how to disagree with someone and not disrespect them in the process. It shows how to be a worthy adversary. The disagreement — the rivalry, even — between the student and the teacher is filled with intelligence and regard and eventually with love. I don’t know how many of the kids see it, but I do. And it’s moving to see on the page.

on the process, week of Jan 22-28

January 29, 2024 / Elizabeth / Leave a comment

so, no writing. but other creativity-related things happened. like eating beautiful meals and dancing to music that rattled the whole building, and going for a swim and thinking. as with the laps, my brain turned on the same thoughts over and over. mostly, I love swimming. I’ve got to do this every Sunday. how do I get Annabelle (my novel’s protagonist) to come to me and tell me her story, in her voice, without it feeling strange? as with all things, I think I’ve just got to start. that will be my goal for this week: a snappy, 500-word vignette told from Annabelle’s perspective. I feel exposed just saying a small goal like that to more than myself, but I hope we’ll all be kind with how it works itself out.

I’ve also thought about a couple of submission deadlines. of course, the publications I admire and covet being in the most have closed submission windows, but that’s okay. I didn’t have anything for them to read anyway. however, a couple deadlines for smaller publications are coming up that I think I can do something for, little flash pieces. the one on skin is still in the works, and I have an idea brewing for something else.

oh, and another piece of evidence that I can work under a deadline, that I can write inside little snippets of time: I wrote a poem today, a found poem — sometimes known as a blackout poem or an altered page poem. I did it as a way to experience what my creative writing students will experience, to see how long it might take, to imagine how hard they’ll have to think. it was hard. but I did it. so they can do it, too.

remember loves, the stakes are not that high. just try. just begin. see you next week.