Ten minutes to write. 

Ten minutes to breathe, and show up, bare foot in my purpose.

What does that look like these days? Before it looked like workshops and books and long days spent behind the computer connecting with other like-minded individuals. 

Now it feels harder. More cumbersome. My purpose is always present, painting the area around me with this murky shine, like when the sun tries desperately to break through the clouds on a day where they're so thick the sky is white with heaviness. 

I remember what it feels like to find a story. I remember the feeling of it settling in my bones and resting there, knowing I would take care of it, knowing I would share it when the time was right.

And I always did. I always took that purpose seriously. I know the words are coming. I feel them in the way I pause at what I've written before, a familiarity looming right behind the veil. 

I know you, I think. Do you know me?

I have this white board in my office at home. On it I write my goals for the month that align with how I'm wanting to feel. 

Alchemic, it says. It's written in purple, on accident but really on purpose, because that's the color of creativity and intuition. Listen for book #5 is scrawled next to the feeling, a mantra I have whispered since I hit publish on INDIE CONFIDENCE over two years ago. 

I know what you're thinking: I've written that fifth book, haven't I? My memoir? And I did, you're right. But I see that manuscript as a bridge between then and now. It helped me in so many ways catalogue my life in a way that felt validating, but it's not for the general public. Not yet. In its form, it is still very much incomplete. 

And so, I listen. 

I stay open. 

I wait for the words that are on their way to me. The words that are settling in my bones as I type. The story I am meant to tell but don't even know it yet.

I am ready. 

Posted on February 10, 2018 and filed under Building Your Craft, The Memoirs.

Being honest.

I didn't get the position I interviewed for a few weeks ago. 

I found out yesterday, combing through my emails at work. 

Thank you for your interest, it said. We take great pride in finding talent....and then the standard bomb: they decided to go with someone else. 

It doesn't matter my qualifications. 
It doesn't matter how I've exceeded expectations. 
It doesn't matter my experience. 

Somehow, some way, I was less than what they wanted. Or maybe too much? I don't know. That's been a thing before and I haven't gotten feedback yet. Whatever the reason, I am sitting here on the other side of knowing and it sucks. 

But if I'm honest with myself, if I get down to that core level of my intuition and soul, I knew. 

Back in May, another email landed in my inbox. It was for an opportunity I hadn't expected and completely different than where I was headed. But every cell in my body lit on fire as soon as I read the words and I knew — I knew — I was supposed to apply. 

And before I even hit send, I knew the position was mine.

It did not make sense. It did not fit my "career path" or what others expected. But I was right. Within a week I had the new role and I started focusing on leadership within our department.

When the job opportunity posted a month ago, I felt a quickening in my gut. I have to apply for this, I thought. This is what I worked for — this is what I've been wanting to do. 

But even as I applied, I knew the position wasn't mine. 

It didn't feel right. It wasn't the right time. I still applied — and I still hoped for an interview since I never experienced one with such high expectations — but if I got quiet enough to listen to my intuition, everything was pointing to me being prepared for rejection.

Around the same time, I started getting random requests for story-coaching and developmental editing. I didn't post about it, didn't share that I was taking clients, didn't do an email blitz that dropped content to my subscribers and led them down a purchase funnel (ew). I just lived my life and dug deep into my art while waiting for the stake holders to make their decision. And in that waiting, three people came to me within a week. 

I need your help, they said. 
I'm listening, I wrote in my journal. 

But even after all of this, and even after journaling just yesterday morning that my current role felt like home and how weird is it that suddenly people are wanting me to help them with their manuscripts again, it still felt like a wave of shock hit me when I read the words that I wasn't chosen. 


I'm still learning to trust my intuition. I know. It shouldn't be a thing still. I talk about it all the time and in reality, all it takes is a few deep breaths for me to connect to that inner wisdom. So I should know by now the difference between the carbonated excitement that runs through my veins like voltage vs the hesitant quickening that signals something is about to be good, but hard. As an empath, I take in so much from my surroundings that very easily I can begin to feel the emotions of those around me and mistake them for my own if I'm not continually checking in with myself. 

What is the truth here? 
How do I honestly feel about it? 
Where does my body feel the most at peace?
What energy am I relying on right now: feminine or masculine?

When I ask myself these questions, I always get an answer. 

So what is my answer right now?

It's continuing to do what I'm doing. Write the idea when it comes. Don't worry about sharing. Read as much as possible. Speak up when I know there's something to say. 

And don't worry about how I will get from here to there — all I need is the next right step. Which for me, right now, is preparing myself for conversations with those who said no, and the grace to find the words when I need them.

More than ever, I am open for the words to find me. 

Posted on January 29, 2018 and filed under Soul Care.

La Loba

It's raining outside. 

The clouds are swollen and dripping heaviness and the only thing I can think about is how long it's been since I've been able to stare out the window, completely free, and watch the rain fall. I've shut the door. This is another thing I haven't been able to do lately. I hear little lion on the other side, playing and laughing with Russ, and I know what his smile will look like when I open the door like the back of my hand. But for now, I am finding words. I am plucking them up from within and placing them where they belong in front of me. 

I feel whole. 

I have a person who folds inside herself when it rains. She's getting better, facing her melancholy when the weather turns grey and frigid, but she knows how this weather makes me unfold, and will text me every so often when the winds begin to shift. 

"This is a day for you," she says. "The Universe just gave you a gift." 

I'll do the same for her when the skies are crystal blue and the sun shines so bright you need protection. While I hide indoors and resist the heat, she'll shuck her clothing and embrace the way it presses into her skin.

"Look how the sun shines for you," I text her. "How are you celebrating today?" 

We need these people in our lives. People who despite time or distance or inability to "hang" they know the pathetic fallacy of weather on our lives. These people sing over us our own song, reminding us of our power when we tend to forget it. 

Hey. This day is for you. Use it. Own it. I'll be waiting on the other side. 



I am in a gathering season. 

Back in the summer, a friend and I looked at each other and spoke of the shift we felt internally. 

"Change is coming, isn't it?" I said. She nodded, her eyes pensive. We didn't know why or what or how, but when you feel it, it's like your molecular structure begins to vibrate. A preparation. 

I wasn't ready. Whenever this happens, whenever I feel the shift but don't know what to make of it, I go inward. Words grow heavy in my throat, ready for release. But this time, I couldn't find a way to get them on to the page. 

I started asking myself, "who am I?" over and over, a broken record without a beat. Was I done writing? Was my identity changing? (I know. Typical 4, right?) But I wasn't used to this lack of knowing. I wasn't used to the inability to find some time to quiet my soul and listen. I felt like I was constantly going. Constantly growing. Constantly looking back and wondering what happened to the Elora I was just a few days before...

Somewhere, somehow, this question shifted into a knowing. I stopped asking who I was and started recognizing all of the pieces of me beckoning for attention.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. — Sylvia Plath

I started trusting myself more. My intuition sparked into awareness and I started knowing things I wouldn't be able to explain. I started speaking out and up and without fear because I recognized the Truth in my words. I realized those moments where I was growing and changing I was also mourning. I couldn't get the words out because they were not meant to be shared. They were meant to grow heavy with longing. They were meant to explode. 

This is what I'm gathering now. This is what I'm finding words for in this moment. 


I listened to a book recently. It was one I've read before, one that held an importance I couldn't quite articulate when I first picked it up a few years ago. As I listened to the story of La Loba, singing over the bones and living into this characterization of el rio abajo rio, I saw myself. I should have known this was coming. I'd been seeing wolves everywhere, lately. Pictures, posts, movies, shows, dreams — it was apparent I needed to pay attention to these messages. The vibrations I'd been feeling for months created a rhythm that centered in my gut and made my heart race. 

I am La Loba. 
I sing over bones. 
I awaken them. 
I help them remember. 

I wiped a tear from my cheek and picked up my journal, knowing now what needed to happen first. 

Before I could wake the bones, before I could join others in song, I needed to sing over myself — over the bones that had been neglected for too long. 

Posted on January 27, 2018 and filed under Soul Care, The Memoirs.