You know that thing you want so badly but you’ve told yourself you just can’t have? For decades? That thing which you know would change your health, your happiness, your creativity, your general outlook on life, your hope in yourself and in your future? That thing?

I’m not talking about something that you think would be good for someone else. Although I’m sure you would be very good at helping that someone else say yes to that good thing that you’re so crystal-clear-sure would change everything for them. That thing they’ve been hinting at but have not yet fully claimed. I’m sure you’d have a whole Atticus Finch persuasive argument about why their lives might even depend on them saying yes to it. I’m sure that you’d be willing to take billable hours out of your workday to persuade them to say yes.

And you’d be smart about it. You’d wait until their birthday. When they’d have to say yes. You’d take them to their favorite restaurant. You’d order them their favorite thing on earth that they’d never order on their own: oysters on the half shell and a glass of prosecco. You’d wait until the first one slid down their throat, followed by a savored sip of bubbly, and then in the blush of their first, sated sigh— something that you haven’t heard from them in months…then and only then…you’d look at them lovingly, but direly, and say:

“It’s time. You know you have to do this big, beautiful thing for yourself. You’ve been hinting at it forever. If I’m getting sick of it, you must really be sick of it. What would happen if you said yes on this next trip around the sun? Would the sky fall? I’m here to promise you: the sky isn’t going to fall. Not because you finally gave yourself permission to say yes to this thing that you want so deeply but can’t even form full sentences about. Just…groans.”

And their faces would flicker with the possibility of finally granting themselves this thing they’ve wanted for years. They’d look like a child for that flicker of a moment. You’d know what their face looked like when they found a penny and put it into a gumball machine and out came a glistening pink orb. So much possibility!

But then their faces would fade into old stories that they have no idea how to rewrite. And they’d utter any number of renditions of the following:

We don’t spend money on ourselves in our family.

It’s selfish.

We suffer and silently feel proud of living in lack. With smiles on our faces, and a lot of ‘I’m fine, how are you?’

We’ve been that way for generations.

Who am I to break the chain just because of something that I want?

So badly. That I can taste it.

Then they’d cross their arms over their chest and look in every direction but into your eyes, and they’d say, “You really shouldn’t have ordered those oysters. It’s so decadent. I should get back to work. You can have them. I know how much you love oysters.” Quick peck on the cheek and even quicker exit.

Now what are you going to do? Find someone else to push, in the way of dreams? Because here’s what you don’t want to think about in any way shape or form: what would happen if you stopped putting all your energy into other people’s “problems” and held the mirror up to yourself? What do you want that you’re not giving yourself? What are your dreams? I bet you suddenly want to run out the door because this is uncharted territory, or at least it has been for a long time now. Since post-divorce reinvention, the fledge of two kids, and a global pandemic…you’ve been in survival mode. Saving mode. Hoarding mode, even. The only thing is: you’re the only one who believes that you need to be in survival mode anymore. Everyone else wants to take you for lunch on your birthday, order you oysters and prosecco, and implore you to thrive again.

Damn.

All of this…recently happened to me, only in its own unique way. It was a bitter but bright reminder of the world of lack I’d let script my life. And it led to a yes I hadn’t known was so pressing. A dream I didn’t know I’d stopped dreaming. That yes stopped years of nos in their lack-living tracks…and welcomed a future of abundance. It was time. And as with many of these pivotal moments, it happened thanks to a dear friend.

A bit of backstory to help you say your own yes:

For twelve years I’ve been helping people say yes to their creative self-expression through the most powerful tool I know: the written word. I haven’t taken them out for lunch on their birthday and ordered them oysters. I haven’t pushed or prodded about their personal life. I’m in no way a therapist and I don’t pretend to be one. But I’ve spent at least an hour with thousands of people on the phone to see if they’re a match for my Haven Writing Retreats and vice the verse. I’ve listened to their writing dreams and what’s in the way of those dreams. Some beginners. Some published. And everything in-between.

What I’m listening for most of all is a longing in their voices. I know that my writing programs will feed that longing. And I can speak to it so confidently because it’s not about me. It’s about the program. I built the program because I’ve walked the walk as a writer, editor, teacher, retreat-leader, and author’s advocate in different iterations, for decades, but mostly for the last ten years and over a thousand clients from all over the world. And it’s the program which holds my clients. I hold the program. The people who staff the Dancing Spirit Ranch retreat center hold me. It’s a very healthy symbiosis. But that doesn’t mean that I know how to be an advocate for my own dreams. Sure, I can give myself permission to take a trip to explore new parts of the world. But what about my oldest adult dream, right in my own backyard? A room of my own. A writing studio. My personal haven. An almost thirty-year old dream that I’d blocked out, and even given away.

Here is the moment when it all changed:

It was after the seventh of my 2021 Haven Writing Retreats last fall. I’d said goodbye to my last group of eight brave souls, with that full heart, yet pit in my stomach. I’m not good at goodbyes, especially after Haven. Haven changes lives, and all of it changes mine. It’s a lot to process and it requires some time to honor it before I get in my truck and drive back to my regular life. Usually I sit at the edge of the lake and look into the peaks of Glacier National Park, thinking about each of the attendees, their breakthroughs, their voices, their stories, sending them all love as they travel home. This time, I chose to sit by the fire. Hearth felt necessary, especially at the end of the retreat season. One of the ranch staffers joined me, relaxing around the fire, reflecting on the magic of it all.

She said, “What are you going to do for you now, Laura? What’s your writing dream?”

“My writing dream? Uh…”

She added, “You were talking at the end of last season about finally finishing off the space over your garage for your writing studio. Did you end up doing it?”

It was an innocent question, but I took it as a naked assessment of my personal BS. These people are the most present humans I have ever met. They are made of intuition. Having the mirror turned on me is not my comfort zone. I wanted to send back my proverbial oysters. But they were so lovingly given.

Instead, I fell into an old personal “hymn” of sorts: “Oh, I’m a flexible writer. I can write wherever. The studio would cost too much. Plus it’s home to any number of pack rats. I wouldn’t want to send them out into the world with their little hobo sticks. I’m fine writing…wherever.” The words tumbled out, rote, but in my mind, I smelled a lot more than pack rats. And I’m pretty sure she did too.

I knew this “wherever” well— I’d designated it as my writing “space” for years. I told myself that this liminal creative space was a moveable feast. I’d memorized a whole mantra around this “wherever”: create it and the sacred will follow. But sitting there with such a pure human, so post-retreat open, I thought: How about it, Virginia Woolf? How about that room of one’s own? Did I have some sort of strange relationship with lack, in this regard? I’d prided myself on the fact that I’d written in eaves under staircases, in closets, in cock-roach-infested rentals, guest bedrooms, in my car between baseball and soccer games, in my bed (too often), at my kitchen table, in cafes, hotels, airplanes…countless forms of wherever for years. Wherever was part of my writer’s identity. But why?

So I looked to this brilliant being for answers to a question I’d forgotten how to ask. “Can you remind me what I said about the studio space last year? I’ve totally blocked that dream out of my mind for some reason.”

Her eyes danced at the opportunity to recall such a lush dream.

“You said that you needed a space that’s just yours. That’s new to you. That doesn’t hold any old energy or memories. A place that hasn’t belonged to anyone else. A place where you can stretch out and do yoga and listen to whatever kind of music you want as loudly as you want. A place where you can move around instead of being so strapped to your computer. Dance. Sing. Play your guitar when no one’s listening. Make your tea on a new stove with a new kettle. A new clean slate.” She was giving Atticus a run for his money. And maybe it was because I was so retreat-open and raw that I listened. Really listened. The teacher needs to be a student.

“I said all that?”

She offered a wide-eyed, loving blink. “Yeah.”

This woman knows me in a way that only a very few do. I can’t pretend that my life is working any better than it actually is around her. She sees through veils and lives in wisdom. So I fought every bit of discomfort. My arms wanted to cross themselves over my chest. My feet wanted to walk me out of the room. My mind wanted to make up excuses for why I needed to get back home.

But this person saw my fear and stayed with it. “Why don’t you do it? I bet the guys might have some time this winter.”

By “guys” she meant the people who built the glorious ranch where I hold my retreats. Every inch of this place is put together with such love, care, intention, craft. I’ve never found a place, in fact I can’t imagine a place, that is so congruent with how I lead all things Haven. I wouldn’t have it any other way and either would they.

She smiled in that knowing way of hers. Only not attached. Just a conduit of truth. And maybe it was because of her knowing smile that something shifted in me. Something heavy and old and even mean.

I thanked her for all of her loving care of my retreaters, and of me, and when I went outside, lo…there were the “guys.” It was odd to see them there in that moment. They’re rarely around during a retreat. They know it’s just our group vibe and they respect it.

“Hey, guys. I’m just wondering…” My heart quickened in that before-and after way. When a fog lifts and you finally give yourself permission to say yes to a big dream. “Any chance you guys have the time, or interest, to fix up over my garage? Make a writing space for me? Nothing too fancy. But special. Sacred. You know. I know you know. Just look at this place! It would be such an honor to have your craftsmanship on my new writing space.” And then the idea branched and leafed as do all essential ideas if you allow them to give themselves to you. “And also…a writer in residence space. For alums of my different Haven writing programs.”

I was sure they’d smile kindly, and say that they were full to the brim with jobs, as all the trades people are in the valley these days. Instead, they looked at each other and said, “We might be able to swing it. Why don’t we stop by and check it out.”

That’s when it got real. When you finally put words and intention to something…I’ve found that things start happening.

It’s been a year since that conversation. Since then, the “guys” have created the most beautiful version of that space that I could ever imagine. It’s like a cathedral. Or an overturned boat. Truly sacred space. We felt our way through all of it— by walls, by floors, by tiles, by cabinets, by counters, by closets, by bathroom, banister, stairway, doorknobs, cabinet pulls, fixtures, the way light hits the space and how to honor it. And so much more. They hung art for me. They suggested where to buy locally and conscientiously. I knew it was a perfect match when one of them said, upon first glance, the place still full of pack rat nests and old, great grand somebody’s great grand broken chairs: “I like the way it feels in here.”

They could feel and see it when I still couldn’t. However are we to dream our futures alive when we are still bowing at the altar of the past?

And I realized that this space over my garage had become a vestibule for holding on to the past. Nobody remembered the original plan— the floorplan my four-year old and I had drawn with crayons on butcher block paper all those years ago. Nobody remembered, not anyone who was living anyway, that this was going to be “Mama’s writing room.” Instead, life happened, and the space become the graveyard for the bones of old dreams, broken by divorce, the dollhouse my parents had built for my siblings and me and that I’d re-decorated after a brutal late term miscarriage, a doll house they’d once loved but which had eventually lost its luster. A holding tank for old stories told by generations in the land of lack. Poverty spirit. We don’t give ourselves such grandiose and indulgent gifts. We do without. You can write ‘wherever.’ ‘Wherever’ is where you belong.

And standing there with these illuminated humans…it became clear: was this lack-land all a lie I’d memorized as truth? I mean…what if I took out a loan? What if saying yes to the writing studio wasn’t as impossible as I thought?

Two weeks later, it was all systems go. I was in a daze.

My adult kids were ecstatic. They couldn’t wait to get it all, finally, out of there. Out with the old. Those weren’t their stories. They never met great grand someone. They were never told to live in lack. A writing studio for Mom? A writer in residence for her Haven Writing Retreat alums? Bring it! I didn’t realize how my burden had become theirs. I needed to let go, if just for them.

“But what about the dollhouse?” I said, bursting into I’m sure ugly, clingy, tears. They had no idea about what it represented for me historically.

“We’ll build our own kids’ dollhouses. Pack rats have been living in that thing!”

That thing? It was as good as saying, We want the future. Not the past. Please let go so that we can too. It’s time.

I agreed. But meekly.

There was nothing meek about what happened next.

My adult children brought in the twenty-year old troops. They parked their pick-up trucks under the studio window. And I waited inside the house, huddled on the couch in blankets, while they heaved and ho-ed all of it out the window, replete with Lord of the Flies tribal chanting…and hauled it away to salvage. I felt legless. Storyless. It wasn’t good or bad. It was just…new. Which was apparently what I’d wanted in the way of a writing space. Brand new. No memories. A clean slate. I wondered if I’d be able to feel good about this huge decision or if I would instead berate myself for it. Punish myself, even. The old echoes: don’t be selfish… I shook those words away. This new studio had things to teach me. I had to remain open to it, even if it was so counter-intuitive.

Every evening for a year, after the “guys” left, I went up to the studio to see the progress and digest it. Like Michelangelo who believed the sculpture was in the stone, I ran my hands over every surface, feeling it, thinking about what it might become. What it wanted to be. I walked the thirty-six steps from my house to the end of the breezeway. And I opened the door to the stairway and wondered: what will it take to claim this passage as my way into my muse instead of scattering her in the ‘wherever?’ What will she be like in this spate of space? This newness? This new story of us? How do I honor us in this new way? How do I create the right welcome? The right…permission. 

And then one night, instead of walking up the stairway, I stopped short of them. It actually felt like the stairway was stopping me. Like it was reminding me of everything I knew but had forgotten in the way of sacred writing space.

In that moment, I flashed on the staircase at Shakespeare and Co. bookstore in Paris, one of my personal meccas. The first time I went to this bookstore, I was nineteen. Hemingway had gotten his mail there. Sylvia Plath had napped there with cats in her lap. The staircase was painted with words that ran from bottom stair to top. It had taken my breath away because it was the exact thing I had needed to read at that moment of my life, still mired in those childhood myths.

I wish

I could show you

When you are

Lonely or

In darkness

The astonishing

Light

Of your own

Being

• Hafiz

That’s what I would do with my studio staircase. That’s the call that I wanted to answer in this new space every time I ascended those stairs.

I ran it by my son and daughter the next day. They want this to be sacred space for me. I trust them in this. Plus, I’d taken them to Shakespeare & Co. in Paris not long ago. I’d shown them the staircase and they’d marveled in it too.

They both said, “That’s perfect for your writing studio, Mom.”

So tomorrow, they’re coming over and we’re going to create our version of this staircase. When we get it done, I’ll share it on social media.

For now, I hope you’ll ask yourself this question and not wait until your knowing, loving friend puts your feet to the fire in her own loving way:

What would it take to finally get over your old stories in the land of lack and no…and bring yourself into an abundant yes? A loving friend who knows your truth? People who can see your vision when you can’t? Just a shift in perspective? Whatever it is for you, I wish it for you. Mostly, I hope you will allow it when it comes.

I hope that you will read these words and know the “astonishing light of your own being.”