Are You Phosphorescent?

by Heather Doyle Fraser

Every quarter I contribute an essay to Elan Vitae Magazine. For Spring 2024, I wrote an essay entitled “Phosphorescent,” which was inspired by my March 2024 blog. (If you are curious, you can read that HERE.)

Every issue has a theme, and the Spring 2024 theme is Light. I love to create some contstraint when writing—these guardrails give you a place to start—but when I first thought about Light as a starting place, it confounded me. There were so many ways I could go with this essay—not much constraint there! 

I started thinking of all the ways light makes its way into my life, and I got a little lost. I thought about the obvious first: sunrises and sunsets, pin-pricks of stars, and the glaring light of my head-lamp on a night walk. Then I started thinking of the less obvious— the luminescence of a baby’s skin and the light that brings warmth in a patch of sunlight by the window. Then I found myself hyperfocusing on and marveling at—and this is the absolute truth—the phosphorescent quality of the skin at the inside corner of my daughter’s eyes! (You notice these things when you are a woman in mid-life.) But ultimately, most of these explorations did not make it into this essay (one did, though).

Here’s a short excerpt:

“It’s still cold outside, but I notice the burgeoning of spring every day on my walks. Shoots burst through the soil, defying the snow melt that still covers the grass in my yard. The greening of the grass comes later, but I see hints of it even now. The birdsong has begun to change as more birds come back from their southern migrations. I hear the familiar calls that I have missed in the past few months.

The thing is, even with these outward changes happening around me every day, I still feel like I am in a season of Wintering. This full-body experience craves cocooning and a gentleness as I cuddle into safeness, reconnect with myself, and redefine who I am. And, along with the redefining there is a remembering element as well.

Remembering what feeds and nurtures me.

Remembering what ignites my passion.

Remembering what lightness has the power to do.”

You can read the full essay HERE.

All of this explanation around my process of writing this essay is simply to remind you (and me) that the writing path isn’t a straight one. It requires not only a willingness to explore but also the fierceness to let something go—even if it feels brilliant—when it doesn’t fit the piece. 

This is hard to do sometimes because words are important and precious to us as writers. It’s a practice to compassionately hold all of these competing thoughts and emotions within you when you are writing. But it’s also somewhat of a puzzle, and I am a curious person: puzzles suit me. I’m betting they suit you, too, if you find yourself on the writing path.  When you are working with a puzzle, though, you need some light. (Ahh…full circle.) Light can be elusive when we are searching for it outside of ourselves. What if we turned inward, though? What if we could recognize the light within us to show the way? What if we were phosphorescent?

With that message, I will close today, but I look forward to exploring what a compassionate writing path looks like with you this Spring and Summer. The ComPASSIONATE Writer Spring Cohort will be starting again on May 14. (You can read more about that HERE.) I’m glad you are here to explore this path with me.

Spring Is On Our Doorstep and Writing Awaits

by Heather Doyle Fraser

Spring is on our doorstep. You can feel the groundswell of energy waiting—and not patiently. Daffodils have started to burst from the soil even amidst the snow melt that still remains in places. Green is beginning to creep back into the landscape— the soft, tentative green of spring.

We’re still a bit off from official Spring, and you can bet we will have at least one more snow—if not three (three snows after the forsythia blooms, as the old wives tale goes)—before it truly feels like we’ve exited Winter. My season of Wintering, though, has been going on for longer than our weather would suggest.

You can be in a season on Wintering at any time of year. My season of Wintering began late last fall after my daughter left for college. I felt the need to retreat and regroup, to cocoon and redefine not only myself, but also how I come to my days. I wrote a couple of essays about this on my blog, but you probably didn’t see them because I didn’t share them.

That’s the thing about my season of Wintering, it isn’t absent of creativity, but there is an absence of sharing. Writers need time to process for themselves and sometimes that looks like not sharing. It’s okay not to share everything. And then, when we feel ready (or even a little before we feel ready), it’s time to share again.

I have not been great about sharing regularly anywhere recently (as I have just confessed), but now I am venturing back. I still inhabit my season of Wintering, but I can also feel the energy of Spring urging me on to begin to share again more publicly here in my communications with you and on my social media.

If you’ve been feeling this need to retreat and cocoon, maybe you haven’t been sharing your voice as readily, either. These seasons in our lives are to be expected — we can’t expand and share constantly — we need time for reflection and introspection. Writing is a nuanced practice, and that requires some periods of a slower pace.

When I think about pace and begin to judge myself for my lack of speed, I remember the word cadence. This word is my mantra when I am feeling undone by what I haven’t done. Cadence allows for my humanity and my times of Wintering. Cadence allows the writer in me to fully express myself even when I don’t feel safe to share in that moment. Cadence allows for change and potential and possibility. Cadence welcomes slowness and speed. When I remember this, I remember that I can set the pace.

With that message, I will close today, but you can expect to read more from me as I emerge from my season of Wintering. We are publishing two new books this Spring at Compassionate Mind Collaborative and the ComPASSIONATE Writer Spring Cohort will be starting again in May. I’ll be here to share about them as well as my thoughts and experiences of bringing compassion to the practice of writing. I’m glad you are here to share these moments with me.

Wintering in the Absence of Mothering

by Heather Doyle Fraser

I have been in a season of Wintering, a time of receding and regrouping, a time of cocooning and hygge, I am abundantly aware of the stillness and silence that surround me – especially since my daughter left for college. The silence really isn’t silent, though, and the stillness seems to be an illusion as well. Or maybe it’s just that my expectation of these isn’t what I am currently experiencing. 

I am not still in this space. I am finding it difficult to BE because I want to DO to distraction. I find myself searching for the “very important something that I must do” that isn’t here like it was before. Mothering is absent. 

In this absence, I am required to reclaim some of myself that I put down eighteen years ago. I say required, but really, I want to do this. I am creating space for it, for me. I am exploring full-out in this silence in a way that I haven’t been able to for years. I thought I had explored – and I believe me when I say that I did – but it was always alongside motherhood because my child needed me. I made a career in publishing, I wrote and published multiple books, I opened my own publishing company, I healed and re-wrote stories that I had carried for years, and I followed my passions and ideas. But all of this I did as a second to motherhood. Now – although motherhood is still within me, mothering is not as present as it was a few short months ago. There is space. And this space feels quiet and still, even though I am not always quiet or still.

I feel the absence of mothering, though, in the silence of the space that has opened up. Sometimes I feel grounded in this space and in the quiet. Other times, the silence harbors a growing dialogue of shoulds as well as explorations of new possibilities – a paradox that I am continually holding together. I guess it’s not silence after all – it’s just not what I imagined it would be. Or, maybe this is just what silence sounds like at this stage of my life.

I do think there is a soundtrack to our silence. It is filled with unrecognized melodies that permeate our every day to the point that they become non-existent in our experience. If I stop now and listen to the silence around me, I can clearly hear cars in the distance, the furnace humming low in the background, and the wind blowing outside through the trees. Even with the doors and windows closed, I can hear the wind rustling the few leaves that still remain. And every now and again, I hear a branch scraping against the house. I know where that branch is – it’s right outside my daughter’s window. And that leads me back to thoughts of her, growing up here and learning to be herself just like I am rediscovering this new version of myself without her.

I remember when my daughter was around five years old, and we were driving in the car – just the two of us. I looked at her in the rearview mirror, bundled in a winter coat in the backseat – her braids on the sides of her head peeking out from under her hat – and I asked her if she wanted to have some music or if she wanted quiet. She responded immediately, “I will have quiet, Mama. I want to do some daydreaming right now.” Then she looked out the window for the entire twenty minutes of our car ride, contentment visible on her face. 

When we arrived at our destination, I asked her how her daydreaming went. She said daydreaming was her favorite part of car rides. She also said she liked daydreaming more than nightdreaming because the daylight and watching the world go by through the window felt cozy. 

I love this memory so much, and it is an anchor for me when I am struggling in the current silence. I want to feel cozy in the stillness and quiet. And often, I do. But what if I allowed some daydreaming for myself? What kind of cozy would I feel then? What if I gave myself permission to explore ideas and a vision for myself that might seem impractical or even impossible? What if I suspended my disbelief, dreamed, and then from that place of stillness and silence created what is burgeoning inside of me and begging to come out?

I already know the answer to these what-if questions because I have engaged with them before. Maybe not exactly like this, Certainly not with the space I currently inhabit in my life now. Even before I had my daughter, when I had all of the space in the world and a lot of silence in which to create, I was not able to ground into the stillness of my heart. I was caught in the frenzy of shoulds and wanting to prove myself.

At fifty, I’m done proving myself to anyone. I am eager to explore, but I am done with “whatever it takes,” and I am embracing boundaries. Boundaries are difficult in the first blush of motherhood because your child needs so incredibly much, both physically and emotionally. You are growing as a mother just as your child is growing. 

The boundaries we set or don’t set as they grow begin to permeate into other areas of our lives as well. And sometimes, we have no boundaries at all (or it feels that way anyway). But as we grow and as our children grow, we are given new opportunities to BE in the quiet and noisy parts of our lives. Maybe that’s what’s in my silence. Maybe that is what lives in my stillness. Boundaries.

The boundaries that I have created are much more visible now, and they provide the constraint that gives me the freedom to listen, the freedom to be, and the freedom to experience my life in a way I haven’t done before. Wintering looks a little different as I settle into that intention.

Allowing Space for Discomfort When Your Only Child Leaves for College

By Heather Doyle Fraser

When I think about what is rising inside of me during this season, I can’t help but look at the proverbial elephant in the room – a paradox of emotions slinking beneath the surface of my everyday, dangerously close to coming into full display with the departure of my daughter to college. I am exceedingly excited for her and all the opportunities and experiences in front of her. I am incredibly proud of her determination and perseverance. I am eager for her to experience the joy of independence, self-sufficiency, and finding purpose and passion in her educational pursuits. I want her to find contentment and peace in her every day and experience the full range of what life offers, and that includes the highs and the lows and all of the nuance in between. At the same time, I want to shield her from the disappointment, sadness, grief, and pain that will undoubtedly show up in that spectrum of experiences on her journey. Holding all of it together – yep, the definition of paradox.

There is a sense of anticipation within me, a melody that has been building and building and building to a crescendo over the past year. And while I write almost exclusively about how the process of writing mirrors the process of life, I am still surprised when I see my story – entwined with my daughter’s – play out with its predictability in process amidst the uncertainty I feel. 

The relationship between my daughter and I has always been sacred. I have enjoyed every season with her, not wishing for a do-over or a return to a different time. I have delighted in her learning, growth, exploration, and how our relationship has evolved and stayed the same over the past eighteen years. I love the person she is, and I love the person I am when I am in proximity to her. I love the essence of home I feel when I hear her voice or feel her presence with me. 

For these reasons, I didn’t expect this next phase might harbor something else – something I haven’t yet experienced – coming up inside of me: an impulse to not return to a time before but to pause and live right where we are for just a little longer. That wouldn’t align with how I live my life, my love for learning and exploration, and my eagerness to experience a story unfold, and yet, there is the impulse – standing there in every room and every moment of my life these days. 

This feeling is uncharted water for me. I live in the cadence of the ebb and flow of a song that changes with need and necessity, but this… this is new. And in the newness of this utter resistance I feel to the speeding up and the building of this melody, I am reminded to allow. 

Ugh. The process shows me the way every time, even if I don’t like the path it sets out before me.

So, what would my story and song look like if I became curious and allowed in this season? If I allowed all of those emotions slinking under the surface to emerge, to rise up without apology? If I gave myself the space to slow down and feel all of the emotions and sensations in my body and not numb or pause the time? What if I gave myself compassion for being in uncharted waters? What if I gave to myself what I am giving to my daughter?

She is traveling into a new life, just as we drive the miles to her chosen college. She is uncertain about what is before her. She doesn’t know how things will turn out. And neither do I. She is up for the learning and exploration, though, and so am I. 

She will become a new person in this next phase of life. I will become a new person in this next phase of life. And parts of us will remain the same. Our relationship will shift more abruptly than in previous seasons – like a key change or modulation, perhaps – but these changes have happened before, and they will happen again.

When I am grounded in this idea of process, I can allow for that. I can become a sight reader – a beginner in this new song – for this next phase, not knowing the notes on the page before I see them, but knowing how to come to the notes and string them together because I have been doing that my whole life. I have been living. Why would I want to pause that?

It’s comforting to realize that this phase is like any other in the process of becoming. I can let go of the outcome with the realization that the process will carry me through the living and the learning.

It’s easy for me to cognitively understand these truths and say I will commit to the process, but the process itself is harder to embody during these uncertain times and when I feel like my heart is being ripped from my body. Even as I write these words, I feel like I am showing too much, allowing too much, but the alternative is less attractive to me. 

So, I will be with the discomfort of over-sharing, hoping that if you, too, have a story similar to mine, you will see another very important truth: you are not alone. I am with you, and I am with myself. We are together now, and that brings me a fraction of ease. And if you aren’t able to allow these same emotions for yourself, I will hold the space for both of us until you are ready. I will allow my tears to fall, and I also will allow a smile and a hearty laugh as those glorious moments of joy bump up against my sadness and uncertainty. I expect this song will require a new commitment every day as it morphs and changes shape over time. But I can allow that cadence. I can be with my rising discomfort because this uncomfortable truth needs acknowledgment and space.

Cultivating a Space that Is Safe When It Comes to Creativity

by Heather Doyle Fraser

A couple of weeks ago, I introduced the idea of creating a safe space for writing or other purpose-driven endeavors. And now, let’s dive into how we can create a process that will help us do just that.

First, we need to look at our creation time as something that is both a sacred and an everyday event – I know, it’s a paradox! There is so much about creativity and inspiration that occurs as a paradox. To do that, we need to show up to the event, and events have a BEFORE, DURING, and AFTER. What will we do BEFORE to prepare ourselves? What will we do DURING to help support ourselves? What will we do AFTER?

I see three internal and external landscapes couched within BEFORE, DURING, and AFTER. These are the landscapes we need to account for when we are cultivating sacred and everyday space for our creativity: physical landscape, cognitive/mind landscape, and time landscape. Our physical landscape consists of – you guessed it – our physical environment and surroundings but also our physical body. Our cognitive/mind landscape consists of the content we are creating and also the thoughts that show up while we are creating in this tricky brain of ours. Our time landscape is the time we give ourselves to create during each session of creativity but also our expectations around how much time it “should” take us to create our masterpiece (whatever that is).

As always, I will use writing as an example because the voice is my context for creation, but as you move through this example, substitute any mode of creativity that suits you!

How BEFORE, DURING, and AFTER Might Show Up

BEFORE

Physical Landscape 

Close your eyes. Imagine a place where you feel safe and creative. Imagine a place where you feel safe to express yourself and share your voice. Where are you? What lives in this space? What kind of lighting do you see? Is there a candle? Soft or bright light? Sunlight streaming in through a window? Are you sitting in a comfy chair or at a desk? Are you in a corner of a favorite room? Do you have a beverage nearby (water, tea, coffee, etc.)? Is there a blanket tucked around your legs and over your lap or is there a pillow behind your back?

If your creative space is outside, think about how you might bring some of the outside elements into your space – with a plant or nature sounds playing while you create if you can’t open a window.

Now let’s move to your physical body. When we are preparing to create our bodies must feel comfortable. Think about what you are wearing – if tags irritate you, make sure the tags on your clothes are removed. If you don’t like the feeling of your jeans on your body when you sit down, wear soft pants instead or something else that suits you. If you tend to get cold make sure you have a layer nearby to throw on. If you are cold you will start to feel your shoulders creeping up to your ears and this in turn will send a message to your brain that you are uncomfortable and that is a cue that you may be unsafe. This can all impact your writing and creation time! Conversely, if you tend to get hot, make sure you have a fan or a cool drink available at your side.

Cognitive/Mind Landscape 

Serendipity favors the prepared mind. Before you begin writing, set your intention for the session. How do you need to show up during this session? What do you need to bring to the page? Boldness, courage, confidence, ease, compassion? 

In addition, draft a short outline of what you want to write for this session. This can be as simple as some bullet points and it doesn’t need to be set in stone. This is your moveable feast! Let’s set the menu before we begin. If something comes up that wasn’t on your menu and you want to include it, you will know where it needs to fall – is it an appetizer, main dish, or dessert? When you have a plan it’s easy to see where something fits. When you don’t have a plan you set yourself up for uncertainty and sometimes confusion.

Time Landscape

If you notice that you find inspiration when you take a walk or meditate or do another type of soothing practice, then make sure to schedule your writing time after you do this activity. Make sure to give yourself enough time to prepare your body and your mind.

Often when we think of time, we just think of the amount of time we need to write, but there is a pre-time that we need to think about. Pre-writing can happen in the mind – ideas percolate there before they make their way to the page. Allow for this time before you sit down to write a specific piece. If you haven’t had enough percolation time before you sit down to write this may appear as procrastination, but it isn’t. It’s process – you just aren’t ready to write that particular piece yet.

Writing is interesting in other ways when it comes to time. Think about the time of day when you feel you are most creative and also how that overlaps with the constructs of your day. For instance, scheduling your writing time when you will most likely have interruptions – kids coming home from school, client emergencies, etc. – will often result in disappointment when it comes to writing. It’s difficult to be creative when you are expecting or suspecting you may be interrupted. 

DURING

Physical Landscape 

The BEFORE work you did will set you up perfectly for your DURING time. While you are writing, pay attention to your physical body and its needs. If you notice tension starting to build up in your body, breathe into that space. If your shoulders start to creep up to your ears, take a deep breath and a moment to roll your shoulders back and forward. If you notice tightness in your hips, breathe and take a moment to stand, roll your hips, walk around for a couple of minutes. Honor your body and its needs. Distractions from your physical body may come up while you are writing. We can work with this, give ourselves comfort, and then come back to the page. This is part of the process.

Cognitive/Mind Landscape

If you did not create an outline of some kind in your BEFORE time, give yourself the compassionate gift of creating that at the beginning of your DURING time. This outline is your best friend. Nurture this relationship. Allow it to support you. Come back to it and tend it. Let it grow and change as it needs to, but give yourself a solid foundation at the beginning. You can use an outline for the smallest of projects – think about it as your Big Idea List rather than an outline if that creates a sense of calm and expansion. What Big Ideas do you want to cover?

If you notice your mind wandering during your writing time, allow your distraction rather than resisting it. Make friends with it. “I see you distraction. What information do you have for me? Is this something I need to attend to now? Is it something that has to do with this piece I am writing? If yes, let’s explore that. If no, then I promise I will come back to this later. I will write it down so I don’t forget.”

As a side note, remember to turn off notifications on your laptop or phone when you are creating. Our mind is excellent at vigilantly keeping us safe and an alert may occur (whether we realize it or not) as something “very important that I need to attend to NOW!” Turn them off for your DURING time.

Time Landscape

A temptation for writers is to plan large blocks of uninterrupted time in which to create. The only problem with this is that it’s hard to find large blocks of time during our schedules and unless you have cultivated a regular writing practice in which you are building the muscle of sustained writing, it will be difficult to maintain your stamina. Yes, stamina. Writing (and other creative endeavors) is like any other practice. It takes time to build your muscles and it is hard! You can’t go from not writing to writing for one or two hours or more at a time. It would be as if you had never run a mile before and you are suddenly asking yourself to run a 10k or a half-marathon. 

Start small with small increments in your writing time. If you allow for the BEFORE, DURING, and AFTER, you will be surprised at how much you can write in 20-30 minutes. And if you need to start with 10-15 minutes, do that! Start small and increase your number of minutes over time. Process always leads to the outcome. 

AFTER

Physical Landscape

When you finish your writing session, take a look around your physical space. Set it up for your next session so that it will be ready for you. Your BEFORE time will thank you.

Next, honor your physical body. What does it need right now after your writing time? Thank it for showing up and show it some tender loving kindness by tending to your physical body. Maybe you need to stretch. Maybe you need to go for a walk. Maybe you need to give yourself some food or hydration. Whatever it needs, take the time to provide it.

Cognitive/Mind Landscape

You have accomplished a lot in this creative session. Acknowledge that. Remember the intention you set for yourself in the BEFORE time? Go back to that and give yourself a pat on the back. You said you would write and you did that. Bravo. 

Give yourself the compassionate gift while your thoughts are still fresh to create a little bulleted list of Big Idea content for your next writing session. At the end of a writing session, we always know where we want to go next and it feels SO PROFOUND that we tell ourselves we would never forget where the path is leading. However, we are human and sometimes we forget, so jot down some notes for yourself and your next session.

Time Landscape

Give yourself a buffer for your AFTER time. Acknowledge that sometimes, creation time requires more of us. Sometimes we need extra time to gently come back to our day. What is a soother for you? If you are creating something that brings up uncomfortable emotions and thoughts, give yourself extra time on the back end of creating for a little self-care.

Let’s Give Ourselves Space for Safeness in Our Creation

I can hear the eye-rolls from some skeptics in the audience. Their voices are added to the voice of my inner critic: “This all seems way too structured! I can only create when I feel inspired! This feels like too much work!”

Here’s the thing about inspiration and creativity: inspiration and creativity can only truly occur when we feel safe. Emotions, thoughts, doubts, and uncertainty will show up. There will be days of hard and days of soft caress and days of exuberant effervescence that we can barely contain in our creative practice. Through it all, we feel safe when we can support ourselves by compassionately allowing for our humanity and navigating the process and our expectations with intention. We know what soothes our nervous system and what ignites our threat responses. Give yourself the gift of cultivating a safe space for your creations and your creativity to thrive whether you are writing or participating in any other creative endeavor.

Again, for those in the back, serendipity favors the prepared mind. When you create a safe space and show up regularly, the magic you crave happens.

How Do You Create a Sense of Safeness for Yourself?

By Heather Doyle Fraser

My Spring season has been filled with a constant coming back to my commitment of comfort – I wrote about this during March and how I would like to commit to being in my comfort zone. And no, that doesn’t mean that I’m comfortable all of the time; rather, it means that I am cultivating a landscape for myself – both internal and external – that supports me and helps me navigate the space in which I find myself. When we have an internal felt sense of safety or safeness, we are able to tolerate distress and discomfort and move beyond what we thought was possible. 

When we feel safe enough, we are able to create with abandon – in whatever form that takes. For me, that is writing, but also other creative practices: art-making, coaching, singing, or anything else where I am leaning on my creativity – you pick your preferred mode of creation! If we don’t feel safe or comfortable enough, we find ourselves using all of our energy just to survive. Survival gets you through the most difficult times, but it doesn’t provide a jumping-off place for creativity and creation. You can’t access the profound expanse of your imagination when you are in a place of fear, threat, and deep uncertainty. Inevitably fear, threat, and uncertainty are our companions in this life because we are human, and they never go away. But there are things we can do to help alleviate or even prevent some of those fears so that we can stand firmly in our comfort zone while stretching into a place of creation. 

What if – just like I committed to my comfort zone during the Spring season – I built upon my comfort to step into creation during this season of my life? It’s a question I ponder often because I am a writer, and I help people to write books and compassionately navigate their discomfort while doing so. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about and experimenting with how we can cultivate a safe space – a haven – in which to create. Because we are human, emotions, feelings, difficult thoughts, and body sensations are going to come up when you are creating something that is meaningful and purpose-driven. If the space in which you create feels safe, though, you are much more likely to be able to maintain and sustain your creativity to the completion of your project. 

How do you create a sense of safeness for yourself when you are writing or engaging in another creative practice? In my next blog, I will share with you what I do to create a safe space to create.

I Have a Compassionate Bridge for You, Reluctant Writer

by Heather Doyle Fraser

I see you, reluctant writer.

I know you.

You want to write.

You feel compelled to write.

And yet, the time for writing eludes you.

You tell yourself writing is a luxury.

You tell yourself you'll do it after you've accomplished XYZ or when the school year is over, or when the house isn't so cluttered.

You tell yourself that once everything is organized, there will be space for you and your writing.

I know what's underneath all of those stories. And if you are really being honest, you do too. There's resistance, doubt, and fear, and all of those are really uncomfortable. This discomfort shows up in the body as a physical experience: tightness in the chest, a clenched jaw, shallow breathing, sweaty palms, and the list goes on. These physical sensations bring on thoughts that you would rather avoid. These thoughts come in hot when you pause long enough to imagine yourself writing, and all of this bears a striking resemblance to a threat response because it is a threat response. Here’s how this might show up:

Fight: "Who do you think you are? You aren't that good of a writer in the first place!" (says the inner critic part in you)

Flight: "You know what you really need? You need to plan for summer or next fall, or, or, or really just plan anything else that takes you out of imagining yourself writing. Better yet, don't plan. Just scroll some social media." (says the by-passer part in you)

Freeze: "No decisions right now. I'm overwhelmed. Keep your head down. There's no magic here." (says the anxious part in you)

Fawn: "Oh, writing! Such a great idea - yes, YES! But now is not the time. Yes. Once everything is settled, I will make a promise to do this for myself." (says the pleaser part in you)

These reactions to the idea of writing are plentiful. Every single person I have worked with over the past 25 years (including myself especially when I am actively writing a book) has thoughts like these and others that are just as palpable. And they don’t happen once in the process. These thoughts come up often and trigger physical responses in our bodies that cannot be talked through or reasoned with. (I’m looking at you, writer’s block.)

I want you to know before we go any further that you are not alone.

I have a unique perspective after working with all of these people and BEING with myself in the writing process. When I look through a compassionate lens for myself and others, I know that we all need a container of safeness - a haven - in order to embrace this part of us that so desperately wants to write.

There are lots of ways to create a haven for yourself, your voice, and your writing that will begin to regulate some of these nervous system responses and soothe a mind that perceives threat. Some are obvious, and some are more obscure. I want to talk about one of the more obscure ones: writing poetry, specifically haiku.

Okay, I can feel the eye-rolls from some of you right now. Stay with me. (April is National Poetry Month after all!)

Let’s give this a try:

My voice fills my heart.

Embrace me, compassionate

One. Newness unfolds.

In the past three years, I have run multiple Haiku Challenges for my online community. These challenges are for people – just like you – who are writers, creatives, entrepreneurs, and others who don’t consider themselves writers at all but are in need of a boost of creativity, community, and connection to their voice. These challenges are also for people who just like writing haikus. (Surprisingly there aren’t as many of you haiku lovers as I expected, but I like to think that I up the percentage by a fraction each time I talk to people about writing these little gems.)

I know you may not be too familiar with haikus, and if you are, it may just be this common meme and t-shirt slogan:

Haikus are easy.

But sometimes they don’t make sense.

Refrigerator.

Haikus are highly underrated. In my work with myself and my clients, I find haiku writing to be a great way to tap into creativity and to your voice. It’s different from what we are used to writing or creating. It’s a short form of unrhymed Japanese poetry that contains 17 syllables and three lines, with the first line containing five syllables, the second line containing seven syllables, and the third line containing five syllables. Traditionally, haiku are based in nature and were created to be a terse response to the elaborate poetry written at the time (17th century), but for my purposes, I am focusing on form and letting the content fall where it may.

My love of haiku was re-ignited back on May 5, 2020. I know you are probably thinking, “that’s very specific!” You see, this date is ingrained in my brain. I live in Ohio, and we experience all four seasons here. The joke is that sometimes we experience all of them in one week, and that first week of May 2020 really lived up to this. We had some lovely spring weather leading up to May 5th. Some great sunny days in the 50s and 60s as well as some cooler days with rain; a mixed bag, but overall a trend toward warmer and sunnier weather. I was doing a lot of walking in and around my neighborhood at the time – walking through the woods and other paths in nature, so I was really enjoying the spring-like weather trend. 

Enter May 5th, and that morning I noticed the sky was a bit gray and it looked cooler outside so I threw on jeans, a t-shirt, and a zip-front hoodie before I went downstairs to start breakfast and take out my dog Coco. My memory is very vivid and solid on what I was wearing because as I stepped out to my backyard with Coco, I was met with not just cooler air but a downright cold wind. As I walked with her further into the yard, I started shivering, pulled my hood up, and zipped myself in up to the neck. To say I was grumpy would be an understatement, and then as I stood there impatiently waiting for Coco, I began to see the snow falling. Yes. Snow. On May 5th. This is a day that people talk about having tacos (it was a Tuesday too by the way) and margaritas (hello, Cinco de Mayo!).

As I came inside, I realized that the weather was seriously about to ruin my day and I didn’t want to go down that path. What was underneath me being upset? I was scared. I didn’t want to head back to winter, not in May 2020. I needed my walks for my mental and physical wellness. I needed those walks like I needed food and water and shelter. Of course, in that moment I wasn’t processing all of this, I just wanted to throw a mini-tantrum about the weather, but I didn’t want to put energy into that, not really. And I also could see where that tantrum would lead – into a whole bunch of despair. I wanted to work through these emotions, but I also knew that I had a packed day full of clients and manuscripts. I thought about writing to soothe my mind and heart but realized I really didn’t have time to write a big piece or journal about how sad and angry I was about the weather. However, I thought to myself, “I could write a poem. Wait, I could write a haiku! I have time for a haiku. It’s only three lines!”

I decided at that moment to turn, embrace, and make friends with this grumpiness, sadness, and anger. I also decided to bring in a little sassy-ness, too, because that felt fun and genuine with the emotions that I was navigating. So I wrote the following haiku (I needed to write it in two parts because I wasn’t done after the first three lines):

Ode to My Winter Coat on May 5th

(Part 1)

Oh, winter coat, you

Laugh in secret, waiting in

The closet for May.

(Part 2)

I thought we were done?

“No, no, you foolish girl! You

Live in Ohio!”

The act of writing this was soothing and brought a smile to my face. In fact, it made me laugh. It gave me a chance to PAUSE and see my anger and sadness with a compassionate lens.  I acknowledged that this turn in the weather was upsetting, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t continue my walks. It reminded me that although I didn’t want this winter weather, it didn’t mean that we were heading back to winter. I was able to have some perspective and realize that this was a moment in time and would probably change tomorrow if not by the following week. After all, it was Spring in Ohio! And for the rest of the day, as I slipped on my winter coat before I went outside, I chuckled to myself and was thankful for the ill weather because it brought me back to writing some poetry and it helped me to navigate some uncomfortable emotions. Since then, I have begun to use haiku writing as a quick creativity boost, a soother, and a way for me to use my voice very succinctly and intentionally to introduce pieces I am writing. It’s a puzzle for my brain with the form and a kind and compassionate way to enter into the writing process for myself. 

Why is the act of writing a haiku kind and compassionate?

This is where all of the newness of haikus unfolded for me. Writing haikus as a warm-up or practice before the main event (like writing a book or your blog) takes the pressure off. All of the sudden, instead of focusing on the big piece of writing that means SO MUCH, I am instead focusing on just three lines. The internal suffering and back-and-forth-ing that happens with the blank page are soothed and then replaced by excitement, anticipation, and curiosity. It’s a small step that gives me a boost and a metaphorical jumping-off place for the writing of the day. Let’s face it, when you are creating a daily writing practice, some days are hard. The point is to show up and write. That’s all. And when I sit down to write, I have my friend the haiku right there with me, supporting me, saying, “This is no big thing. Let’s have some fun. How about a little puzzle? What can you create in three lines that feels true to what you need and want to say today?”

If I’m really struggling, even with my friend supporting me, I put a little more support under me, picking one or two words I want to include in the poem. They can just be random, and all of the sudden, something is unlocked! Or what if I bring more of my safe haven into the writing? What if I connect to something that soothes me and supports the idea that I am writing about? Well, I’ll tell you what happens: I feel better. I feel at ease. My nervous system is more regulated. I feel the joy of BEING with writing as I participate in the DOING of sharing my voice.

Would you like to join the haiku challenge? I’m thinking about starting up another haiku experience later this month. Would you like to participate? Let me know in the comments!

It will be simple –  just seven days, and maybe it could help you create a new way to approach writing for you. One that is kind, compassionate, and supportive.

Committed to Comfort

by Heather Doyle Fraser

I live in Ohio. As such, the coming of Spring feels momentous and inspiring. January and February are a gray and gloomy duo for the most part. We vacillate from bitter cold – the kind that mercilessly cuts through your parka (yes, the thick and bulky one) – to steely skies that, while not bitter, surely aren’t warming. As I think about the Januarys and Februarys throughout my life, I often picture myself trudging through them while simultaneously trying to hygge up my space, bringing some comfort and cozy to my inner and outer landscape. And don’t get me wrong, I live by the seasons and enjoy the freedom I find within myself while I navigate them; however, as we gingerly approach each new season, I find myself ready for the shift. 

This year, as I step across this threshold spotted with the beginnings of buds on the maple trees in my yard and green daffodil stems bumping out of the soil, I’ve set an intention to bring a bit of the comfort I cultivated during the Winter season into the Spring. I have a vision for myself: I’m on a mission to renew my commitment to comfort this year. I want to bring intentional awareness to what brings me comfort and explore how I can commit to living inside my comfort zone, especially when it comes to my writing practice and process. 

In the coaching and corporate leadership worlds, there is a lot of noise around getting OUT of your comfort zone. According to the gurus, you can only excel and succeed if you stretch BEYOND your comfort zone. I think this idea trickles or crashes into our concept of what a successful writing practice and process looks like.

Your writing self has a need to be seen and heard. So naturally, your task-manager self wants to help you achieve and excel! Here’s a glimpse into what that competitive task manager might be saying as you plan your writing time:

“What works in my every day? Goals! Outcomes to achieve! A list of to-dos! How about 1000-1500 words per day? YES! That will do it. Create a stretch goal. Or better yet, just blow past that stretch and go straight for the gold! That’s the only way to be noticed. That’s the only way to be published. That’s the only way to get your message out in the world!”

What I know about writing and being human is that constantly being outside of your comfort zone – and way outside of it especially – leaves you engulfed by threat, fear, and resistance. This isn’t a place of creativity. This is a place of survival. And while you might be able to plow through that resistance initially, eventually, you will exhaust your internal resources. Your capacity for writing will diminish until it feels like your inspiration has left the building. 

I have a different idea to explore – a different way to approach a writing life: I want us to settle into our comfort zones. I’m renewing my commitment to that throughout this season, and I would love for you to join me. I know it will take some practice, and it might even feel counter-intuitive if you are used to stretching, stretching, stretching, stretching until you feel like you might break instead of bend (that’s how I feel sometimes). 

First, let’s start with a shared understanding of what I consider your comfort zone. I do not consider your comfort zone to be without struggle or challenge. I consider your comfort zone the place where you know -- with profound wisdom -- that you have the wherewithal to navigate the struggles and challenges that will inevitably come up as part of our humanity. I think your comfort zone sits at the confluence of the three emotional regulation systems within us: the Threat System, the Drive System, and the Soothe System. I’m borrowing the identification of these three emotional regulation systems from Compassionate Mind Training out of the Compassionate Mind Foundation UK, founded by Dr. Paul Gilbert.  

According to Dr. Gilbert (the founder of Compassion Focused Therapy and Compassionate Mind Training), as humans, we have three emotional regulation systems that have evolved over time to help us survive. Picture in your mind three circles; ideally, they work in concert to help us thrive when they are balanced. I think your comfort zone lives at the intersection of this three-circle system, like a Venn Diagram. When you are in your comfort zone, you can utilize your Drive System and Soothe System to handle the fears, blocks, and resistance that Threat System ignites. I believe that your comfort zone IS your writing zone.

I believe that your comfort zone – or writing zone – grows with you and your voice, but if you try to grow too fast, you find yourself enveloped in threat and drive that you are not ready to navigate. 

How might this show up in writing? In the form of fear, resistance, or what some people call writer’s block. When you are in the Threat System, you have a bodily response that tells you things are not safe. This happens in writing, too. You might experience sweaty palms, elevated heart rate, an unsettled stomach, shallow breathing – any of these may show up from time to time and at various levels of intensity when you see that blank page or when you are trying valiantly to get those 1500 words down in your writing session. 

There’s another way to approach writing, though, that asks you to bring comfort, compassion, and soothing to your writing practice on purpose. A way that looks soft, subtle, and slow on the surface but is fierce and filled with strength if you have the courage to take the time and look underneath. This way requires curiosity and compassion to accompany your writing self as you stand within your writing zone. It begs you to start asking yourself questions and listening to the answers. Questions like, “What if I allowed my curiosity and comfort to be the momentum behind my inspiration and creativity? What if I embraced a balance of what empowers my drive and what inspires my soothe = what motivates me and what calms me?” 

Spending time in this writing zone where you have strength and capacity leads to focused attention and words on the page. It’s a process that will take you to your outcome, but only if you stay in the practice day after day and are willing to comfort yourself when the page looks like a bleak February sky.

Interested in cultivating a compassionate practice for your writing this Spring? Join me in the ComPASSIONATE Writer, a 6-week program that supports your voice and your writing process. We begin on April 4. Learn more about the experience HERE.

Compassionate Process Over Productivity Please

by Heather Doyle Fraser

Productivity is a word that, in some contexts, is helpful. Dirty dishes? Yes, productivity is helpful. I like to eat off of clean plates and have a clean glass. No clean underwear or socks? Yes, let’s do that laundry and check that task off the list!

But what about writing? I see lots of noise right now around writing and productivity– it’s January, after all. What do I mean by noise? Here are some examples:

• 1000 words per day! No exceptions!

• Your daily writing time is non-negotiable. You must write every day! And while you’re at it, make sure it is in the morning and that you write three pages (8.5 X 11) as quickly as possible – 10-15 minutes is good.

• Write your book in a weekend, but only if you act now with my easy-to-use template! (Substitute any unrealistic amount of time here, such as “seven days” or “in only a month.”)

If you haven’t guessed yet, I don’t think productivity for productivity’s sake will get you very far in writing. Your task manager is not going to write your book or other big writing projects. In my book (yes, pun intended), process will support you on the page in a way that productivity just can’t touch. When you focus on the process of writing, you will achieve whatever goal you set for yourself eventually and at just the right time. 

When you focus on process, presence is available. When you focus solely on productivity in writing, you often experience something you may not have expected: resistance. 

You are human. You have a voice to share, and that is vulnerable. When we are vulnerable, we feel (at the least) uncomfortable and sometimes even under threat – from both our inner landscape and our outer world. When we feel uncertain or filled with doubt, often we bargain for control. If I just follow this system… If I just write 1000 words a day… If I just have the self-discipline to buckle down and overcome this resistance…

We’ve all been down this road at least once. Where does this leave us? It leaves us judging ourselves and what we do every minute of the day. We become only as good as our doing, forgetting about our being. This creates a harsh inner landscape that is confusing, conflictual, and contradictory to the creative journey of writing. Self-criticism and judgment with a side of shame. 

What I am offering for your consideration is another way. A way that – at its foundation – relies on self-compassion, process, and trust. 

First, let’s come to a place of fundamental understanding around the writing process. Not all writing needs to be for public consumption. Yes, I said it. Let that sink in for a moment. If you identify yourself as a writer (especially in a time when it is so easy to share your work online) it’s difficult to let go of the goal of productivity. We suffer under the expectation that everything we write must be shared and measured by the outside world. It’s difficult to remember that we can – and it is helpful – to be in the process of writing for its own sake.

I work with people who use writing as a way to share their message and themselves with the world. Often they are writing a blog, and they also may be writing a book or moving towards that goal. It’s good to have goals to move towards because when you start with the end in mind, it’s easier to get there. But sometimes, we become lost in the goal and lose sight of the process.

Good writers do a few basic things over and over that make them consistently better:

• Write consistently without the expectation of sharing all of it. (You will be sharing – just not ALL of it!)

• Read consistently multiple genres for enjoyment.

• Practice the process of writing and reading over and over.

• Trust the process of writing and revising: trust what you and your voice (your writing) needs each day.

And the nice thing is, even if you don’t consider yourself a “good writer” now if you do these basic things over time, you will become one.

A deep writing process is not for those who want the quick dopamine hit of a social media post where people will respond almost instantaneously. Deep writing practice and process requires you to shift your expectation around productivity. It’s a process of delayed outward gratification, but instantaneous internal gratification. Every moment spent in the practice allows you to grow. Every moment is productive even if it doesn’t appear so to the outside world. 

The writing process favors being in the present moment rather than doing as much as you possibly can. It favors focus, and time, and exploration. There is no multi-tasking with writing.

What does this mean if you are writing a book?

First and foremost, there are no shortcuts, easy buttons, or templates that will bring you what you desire, which is your unique voice out there in the world, couched in story, and cradled in a book cover. There are no productivity hacks when you are starting out on your writing journey. Sure, you can track your words in each session, but what does that really mean? It only means you wrote that many words that day. It doesn’t mean that you will keep all of those words in whatever you are creating.

I find tracking words and your outward productivity is an ill-advised tactic that doesn’t always lead the beginner to their ultimate goal. This type of productivity tracking focuses you on the blades of grass instead of the bucolic expanse of the landscape in front of you. And it sets you up for feeling like a sloth and a harsh inner landscape filled with cutting self-criticism.

Pay attention to your resistance in your creativity. There is another – more compassionate – way to create that supports your voice without constantly also igniting your threat system.

When you first begin a consistent writing practice, time is your friend. You can commit to time on writing more easily than words on a page. For instance, when you are beginning, you can commit to twenty minutes of writing time and then incrementally increase the writing time as you become more comfortable with the practice of writing. Like anything you are beginning, start small and incrementally increase as you become more comfortable. Allow your comfort zone to expand with you as you progress. When your goal is time, and you are present for that time, you set yourself up for success and some momentum that will help you, not resistance that hinders you.

If we compare writing to any other activity that you would practice, it’s easy to see that a compassionate process leads to presence and generally growing stronger in the practice of whatever you cultivate. Let’s take exercise – running and walking in particular. I really enjoy short distances in the run/walk, especially the 5K distance. 

I’m not fast. I run a bit (well, it’s probably better characterized as a jog), and I walk a bit as my body dictates. And I realize as I create a practice with running and walking, I enjoy it more and more. I find, too, that the practice of running is so similar to the practice of writing. It provides a physical manifestation of what I experience internally when I’m writing. I have to convince myself to start sometimes, and I always feel better afterward. I have even written a piece or two on the up-and-down relationship with running and writing and how they are so similar.

I’ve noticed some interesting things since I started exploring the similarities between writing and running on social media. Primarily because running is something that people track and have goals around, people who have read my posts about the connection between running and writing immediately assume that I am running to meet an outside goal. I’ve been asked so many times, “What are you training for? What race are you working towards.” And the curious always seem a bit surprised when I tell them that I’m not really training for anything. I just want to get better at running three times per week, feel strong, and build my lung capacity and fitness level so I can enjoy my body to its fullest extent for as long as possible. And I really enjoy how I feel when I’m done! That’s not traditionally productive, but it suits me and my needs just fine.

If we look at running and its similarities with writing, you wouldn’t ask yourself to run three miles tomorrow if you had never run a mile before. It’s the same with writing. You can’t expect to write 1000 words in your first writing session if you have never done it before. Moreover, you can’t expect yourself to consistently write that many words, day after day when you haven’t practiced for it. You won’t have the stamina to sustain it.

In the most simple terms, we need to flip our expectations on how we think about productivity when we embark on cultivating a compassionate writing practice.

When I am working with someone on a book, this expectation flip is particularly hard. If you are writing a book that caters to your voice that highlights your strengths as a writer and your message, it is not going to be one that you can write in three days, a week, or even a month. It’s a long layered process that meanders even when you have a book map. It grows and evolves as you grow and evolve. And once that first draft is done, you are not nearly finished. 

And if you stick with it, over time, you will have the book in your hands, but only if you allow the process. And only if you allow that every word you write is not for public consumption. Some words will always only be just for you.

If this type of writing process sounds like something you would like to explore, join me in the ComPASSIONATE Writer. It’s a six-week program that allows you to explore and create a compassionate process that supports your relationship with your writing practice, your voice, and your book. Learn more HERE.

It's All About the Relationship

by Heather Doyle Fraser

When I tell people that I read for pleasure at night after a day of working with authors on their books and also writing for myself, they look at me in disbelief. It’s true, though. I adore books. I adore story. I adore witnessing a voice in its fullness. But more than anything, I adore the relationships I cultivate when I am reading.

I have a very ingrained nighttime ritual that includes reading for pleasure every night. No matter what (or almost always no matter what). Even on the nights when I have a late gig (I am in a band so occasionally, I don’t get home on the weekends until after midnight). Even when I am tired. The length of time that I read isn’t always the same – sometimes I read for ten minutes, sometimes my reading session lasts for more than an hour. But it is always there ushering me out of my day filled with people’s needs and project needs, and into a quiet space that is only for me.

When I talk about this reading practice of mine, some think I am exaggerating. Others comment that the minute they go to their bedroom, they simply can’t keep their eyes open. All of this is completely reasonable and understandable. What they don’t know is that reading is my love. I crave the haven it provides me. I crave the relationship I feel with the content, the story, the characters, the flow of ideas, the pace of the words on the page. It’s all about the relationship for me, and it sustains me and gives me hope when everything else feels difficult and hard.

I started reading early on, and once I began, I never replaced it with something new. My dad read to me before bed before I could read on my own, and even after that. Some of our favorites were the books in the Wizard of Oz series (there are fourteen books in the series) by Frank L. Baum, Under the Lilacs by Louisa May Alcott, and The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles by Julie Andrews (yes, that Julie Andrews). My sister and I would curl up on either side of my dad on my parent's bed, and he would read. It felt safe, and I felt seen – not just in the stories but also by my father. It was a quiet place where I could revel in wonder and dream, and I could also share that with my dad. My sister often fell asleep, but I was all in, and it wasn’t difficult to plead for another chapter and have that wish granted.

As I grew, I continued reading in my own bed at night before turning out the light. Later in my teen years, I used that time for writing, too. So, this bedtime ritual I currently have isn’t something new. It’s more than a habit at this point in my life. It is a way of life. Reading, story, authors, have always been there for me even when I wasn’t showing up for myself or when I didn’t feel supported in this challenging world.

In order to be a good writer, you must be a good reader. This means first and above all that you read. Books. And I highly recommend reading books in multiple genres because it stretches you. Oh, and as a bonus, it is immensely fun and rewarding!

When you read different genres and don’t stick to the one where you feel most comfortable, you begin to see the connections of story among all of them and how story works whether you are writing a creative personal essay, non-fiction, poetry, short story, memoir, long-form contemporary fiction, young adult fiction, fantasy… the list could go on and on as you know, but we’ll stop right here.

One of the genres that I ask my clients to read first alongside whatever they naturally gravitate towards is poetry. (I can feel some of you rolling your eyes, and that is ok! Stick with me for just this paragraph.) In poetry, we discover that an economy of words doesn’t mean we can’t express ourselves. Poetry provides some constraint for the writer, and that is just what we need sometimes. 

I challenge you to slow down and read some poetry today and see how it feels as it seeps into your soul. Allow your compassion to come into the space with you as you meet your emotions, for they will come up. Then, allow your curiosity some space and room to breathe: What do you notice about the author’s voice, pacing, or other writerly techniques? What do you notice as you look at how you relate to the piece?

If poetry is new to you and you don’t know where to start, I’m going to suggest Mary Oliver. There is a collection of her work in a book called Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver that I promise will not disappoint you. 

In one of her most famous poems, Summer Day, Mary Oliver begs a question, 

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

The answer for me is easy to identify but takes a lifetime of care and intention to cultivate: build relationship – with myself, with story, with kindred spirits, with character, with voice, with authors, with books, with life.

What will you do?