Five Minute Friday – A View of Safety, Hope and Healing

Posted on May 24, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

He has a box on his head, his arms out straight clambering toward his sister. His giggles echo through the eyes and the jagged, smiling mouth as he moves closer. She hears his muffled, small growl and runs away laughing. “Monster!” she tells me excitedly as she runs past. “Monster.”

They know this is a game, know they are pretending. They live in this, in this game, in knowing. Safety.

He sits on my lap, turns and looks deep into my eyes. He places one hand on my stomach and asks, “I was in my birth mommy’s tummy? How did I get there? How did I get here?” I tell him the story again. His birth. Relinquishment. Choices. Waiting. What family means, how it’s not just us, not just DNA, how it’s so much more. Hope.

We lay together in the bed this morning, me waking slowly into their wiggling energy. My eyes closed, I hear their hope, their safety, know somehow I’ve offered and received glimpses into something new, into something different. We learn together. Heal together.

Refreshed and Recharged

Posted on May 20, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

I don’t often make time to rest or play. I conquer. I accomplish. I achieve.

But last week I’d done all I could do. I’ve been writing and reading and writing more since January. I have dug up little pieces of time between mothering two little kids getting up early, staying up late, and hiring several babysitters each week to grant me uninterrupted thinking and writing time.

A class ended last Monday. I was a little sad, to be honest. The group was incredible. Great writing. Great discussion and conversation. It was a safe place to explore our stories through writing with the added safety of structure, grammar and word choice being a haven from diving too deep into murky emotions.

I was also relieved when the class ended. I felt myself collapse into a mental exhaustion. I couldn’t bear to write anything. I couldn’t even bear to respond to emails and messages from friends. I was out of words. Empty. So, despite the large stack of reading assignments I have for a workshop coming up in three weeks I decided to take a week off.

No words. No babysitting. I spent much-needed time with my kids. We splashed in the wading pool. We went on walks. We looked for bugs and jumped on the trampoline. Late in the week we went on a four-day vacation as a family of four. We rode tricycles, swam, hiked, colored, read books, played we were trolls on the playground and took long naps. We slowed down. We did what we wanted to do, not what we had to do. By the end of the week I even found myself wanting to read – for fun.

Today, I am refreshed. I am ready to hit the next month of writing and reading. I am recharged.

Five Minute Friday – Song

Posted on May 17, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

Fridays (at least some of them) I link up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday. The deal – just write for five minutes, no overthinking, no rewriting, no backspacing, just pure unadulterated fun.

“I’m ballerina,” my daughter says with her hand high in the air. She half skips and half gallops across the floor, turns and tosses her tiny hips to the side to make her skirt bounce. She twirls, puts her hands out to the side and lifts her head tall. She stops, then prances back toward me. She is two. She is grinning. She is singing.

She sings of hope and of all it means to be a little girl safe in her beauty, believing nothing but embers glowing against the night and growing into more beauty as she grows into all she was meant to be.

It’s contagious, her singing. Her dancing too. Sometimes I sit back in the chair and watch her dance, listen to the happiness in her song. Other times I can’t help but let my feet stand, do a little skip. I can’t help but put my hands in the air and believe for a moment that I, too, am beautiful. Then, I sing. I hear myself sing along with her, hear joy blend our voices together.

Bittersweet Celebrations

Posted on May 13, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

It’s been four years now. Four years since we stepped off a plane at Denver International Airport, changed our son’s clothes that spoke of his rough plane ride and first day with us, and headed toward family waiting to meet him.
We were tired. He was tired. We were all ready to go home, although that meant different things to us.

Today, we are celebrating four years as a family, yet with celebrations that go with adoption
there is a sinking feeling, too. There’s that knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat as I think about his losses, mine, others’ that brought us together.

In celebrating today and other days I will tell him the truth. I will tell him what brought us together. I will take layers of the candy coating off each year as he matures and can understand more. I will help him own the stories, listen as he retells them, answer questions. He already has so many questions. So many.

I will tell him about how he cried on the airplane, fought against me, a new routine, new smells and new foods, refused to speak as he grieved. I will tell him what I know about his birth parents, his foster parents, his birth and stories of meeting him. How I remember his round face, the rolls at his wrist and realizing my hand had somehow reached out to touch his tiny hand even though I’d been told not to – not that first day. I will tell him about watching his foster mom soothe him and wondering if I would know how to do that someday. Would I know him well enough? Would he know me? Would we cross that wide gap between strangers and family?

We would, it turned out, though I’m not sure when it happened. It wasn’t just one
day and we may still be crossing it one mundane or trying moment at a time. We are
family now, complete with this son blossoming in bravery a little more every day
and his little sister, who has brought a little of the circus into our family.

Today we celebrate. We grieve. We let life be what it is. We honor the women who
gave our son to us and who continue to be a part of his life. We respect loss. We
respect gifts. We wrap it all up as I hold my son close when he wants, and we let it (and him) go when we need to.

Happy fourth anniversary day, son! We are so glad you are part of our family!

Five Minute Friday – Comfort

Posted on May 10, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

Comfort

Sometimes it’s warm and soft and its arms wrap tight around a toddler or preschooler as they writhe against not having their way. Sometimes it’s a soft word, a pat on the back in the middle of the night. It could be tickling toes or tummies, giggles and smiles and hearty throw-your-head-back kind of laughter. It could be a ruffle of the hair as a son says goodbye for the day and walks boldly into a preschool classroom. It could be a daughter asking to sing a song, to be flipped upside down again, again, again.

Comfort rises up in community and collapses tired after a noisy, hard week into blankets on the couch, nestles into conversation over a chai with a good friend. Comfort comes in a card in the mail the flowers bright and hopeful when darkness is in the sky of life. It is quiet in the clasp of a hand, a single tear. It comes in questions that beg to know the answer, the truth, saying nothing else will do. Not then, not ever, because the answer and the person are worth the truth even if jagged and rough or ugly.

Comfort sees the beauty past an open wound oozing hopelessness. It says, “Hush now. I’m still here,” in the gaps and the silences. It waits. Patiently. It is on the noise of children playing, in wild dancing, and colors sloshing over the edges of my life into yours. It rises and falls with the cacophony of life, of you and me and children and goals and dreams. It sparks and ignites, then burns slow, gentle, its warmth glowing orange on our faces, the cold night at our backs. It sings softly, holds out a hand and says, “Come.”

Becoming the Because

Posted on May 6, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

Sometimes I want to know why. In the midst of a dark day or darker night I hurl questions at the ceiling and feel them bounce back. Why this? Why then? Why me? Why them? Why? Are things really meant for a purpose? Do I really believe that God can work all things together for good, even awful things? Could my life now be part of the purpose to my pain?

I was going through some old journal entries recently and found this. It made me smile. There are probably lots of reasons why this doesn’t make sense. Please remember, it’s just a journal entry and it was late at night when I wrote it. I am sharing this with you in case it resonates with where you are right now, you need a smile, or maybe are just hungry for pie.

11/26/12
Today I dare. I dare to step into the spotlight and speak my language. I dare to write what I know I must write, what I fear I must write, what must live outside of me once and for all. I will open my mouth, free my fingers and let them sing. I will sing through writing, sing through poetry, sing through blog posts baring my soul. Yes, I will sing.

I hear my voice now. I hear its squeak, then hear it warmer and warmer until its vibrato soothes and sparks a spirit both in myself and in others. I will sing and I know. This is why I am here. This is why I am alive. This is the why for all the pain, the why for the suffering, the grief, the loneliness, the hurt, the ripping open and breaking apart, the violation and abandonment. This right here, right now. This is the why. Today is the why.

I am the why. I am worth the why. I am the because to the why of the past. I am the because to all that was ever before, all that lies murky in my memories, all that floats up above hope too far to reach. I am the because. I am the because to the whys pounded into pillows, to the socks hurled across the room, the feet stamped, the four-letter words screamed to the sky, the backs of car seats pummeled in dark parking lots. I am the because.

Because today I live. Because I eat. Because I celebrate. Because I grieve. Because I get angry and rage and scream and cry. Because I reach out. Because I let others reach in. Because I fight, I try, I keep asking myself, my younger self, to speak, to try, to keep trying. Because I write. Because I did write, do write, will always write. Because this is how I breathe. Because this is how I reason, think, process and dream. Because this is where today ends and tomorrow begins. Because this is where it all comes together, it all rides away to something else, something better. Because today is all I know and it is a gift. Because I am hungry and I want pie and I will eat it for my snack tonight. Because today is just one day and being snippy does not mean I’m a bad person. Because today I see myself, have been seen, am seen. Because I am loved. Because I am lovable. Because, because, because. Just because. That is all and that is enough. Good night.

Five Minute Friday- Brave

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

“Tell her,” he says, eagerly. “Please, you tell her.”

I bend down, look him in the eye, touch his hand gently and say, “I want you to tell her.”

“No, mommy. I can’t.”

“You can. I know you can. I’ll stand right by you and help you if you need it.”

He looks at me, then, his eyes steady and sure. He holds my gaze for only a few seconds, but I feel his breath slow and his spirit steel itself. Then, he pulls his hand away and walks into his class, behind the small table and touches his teacher gently on the arm.

“Garage sale,” he says smiling. His hands go into his pockets and he bends his knees, bends, bends.

She pulls him close and asks him to say it again.

“A drink of water?” she asks.

“Garage sale,” he says again. I say it then as she looks up at me, explain we drove by a garage sale on the way to school this morning.

“Oh! Do you have money to spend at a garage sale?”

He nods eagerly.

“OK. I have to go now,” I say. I wrap him proudly in my arms, whisper in his ear, “That was brave. You did it. You told her all by yourself. I’m proud of you. You are brave.”

Pouring Myself Onto the Page

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

I am tired this week, yet full in a way that you can only be when you are exhausted after completely pouring yourself into something you love. I have been pouring myself into writing, working hard each week, nights, weekends, etc. I am empty because I have been so filled, left so much of my heart and my life on the page.

I have worked and reworked the feelings and pictures and stories until I can’t see outside of them. I find myself thinking of new ways to say things, wanting to tweak that one sentence there as I fall asleep. I keep my phone beside my bed, jot down notes that only sometimes make sense when I wake up.

I turned in the third of three essays for my class last week. I turned it in a week early purely to get it out of my head to leave room for finessing work due next week for a workshop I’ll be taking in June. And yet that essay hasn’t quite left my head. Not quite. A few days after I turned it in I made the mistake of reading through it again. Naturally, I changed a few things. Writing is never done. Not really. Just abandoned so you can start something else.

I’ve been fighting burn out, hanging on to my love and need for writing. I crave a break and yet I fear a break. Will I write? Without a deadline will I have the motivation I need to continue, to stretch myself past a class onto a published page?

I’m sure I will write. I will always write. I can’t imagine not writing. It is the place where I feel the most me, the safest, the boldest and the strongest. But as much as I love writing and need it, I am eagerly anticipating a break. I am looking forward to breathing between the lines, letting my thoughts and vulnerabilities rest. I am ready to step outside of the isolation of a writer’s world and spend time with friends. I am crossing off each day on the calendar, both excited with each day passing as well as feeling stress rise with all I still need to get done.

When I submit my work for an upcoming workshop I will be ready to read for fun, to write for myself, to have the freedom to not write at all. I’m ready to rest and recover the joy of writing that led me here, dream of all that is yet to come.

Five Minute Friday – Friend

Posted on April 26, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

I’m all out of courage, strength and answers today. I’ve given my heart, my hope and my story all week, seen people get it for the first time, feel it. They’ve used my heart and story to understand, to step into my experience. They’ve walked with me for 5 or 10 or 20 pages. For those brief moments I felt it. I felt safe, accompanied, heard, seen. Understood.

Then they stopped reading and I kept writing, hoping, wanting. I used myself and my story up. I got tired of shoving and forcing and pushing. I got tired of offering, of feeling. Today, I consider if I will go see some acquaintances budding into friends. Will they leave before there is a chance to be friends? Will I?

I am tired, worn out, left with barely enough to take care of myself today and my family. I have nothing left. Nothing. I don’t have the strength to risk pieces of myself. I don’t have any answers to offer. I am not sure I even have enough courage to make it inside these relationships let alone look anyone in the eye.

Yet there’s something inside me that propels me to go. I want these budding friendships. Even on a day when I’m empty I find a sliver of hope. I long to call these women friend, to hear them call me friend. I will go.

A New Type of Vulnerability

Posted on April 22, 2013 by Shawna Ervin

About a month ago I gave a talk at my church about answering God’s call into vulnerability. And then God tossed me into vulnerable situations right and left. A vulnerable poem was put on a website. I shared some vulnerable writing with professionals and important people in my life. I risked and shared vulnerably in a small group.

That all sounds good, right? Things didn’t go well. Rather than starting a conversation or deepening relationships, I heard loud and long silences. Immediately after I shared in the small group I learned the group will be ending, the leader leaving. I didn’t go back. I haven’t been back to church since I talked.

At first glance that may seem drastic and maybe it is, but I also think it’s good for me right now. I’ve always craved the kind of relationships that last past a group, past a success, past my shoving myself in front of people hoping to be noticed. I long for relationships where I don’t have to force someone into a friendship who never wanted to be there. I deserve more. I want more.

So, I’m stepping back. I’m letting the silences be loud and long. And, I’m finding that people are there. Quieter people. Steady people. People who say they’d like to hang out not because I’m good at anything or amazing or all that wonderful, but just because I’m me. I’m finding that they have been there, they notice and have the courage to ask if I’ve retreated. They are consistent, steady, reliable. Safe.

I am starting something new, a new type of vulnerability. I’m vowing to risk enough of myself to be known as I really am, and to know others, to stay past when things get rocky. I’m learning to look for lasting relationships, to go slower and allow myself to feel safe. I’m learning to pour my energy into the relationships that have lasted and will last.

I’m learning to be a friend.

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