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how to spark transformation

writing
Aloha Dear One, 

If you’re anything like me, you want to evolve beyond your fears and elevate the space around you. Being an active participant in my healing journey to live an extraordinary life of everyday enlightenment requires daily practices. One of these is foundational to wellbeing: keeping a journal.

Noticing the story we tell ourselves, and being courageous enough to write a new ending to this chapter of life allow us to live a good life and be of maximum service to others.

We change in here to ignite out there.

We can spark transformation by cultivating a writing practice. 

Here’s a few highlights from an article called Journal Writing as a Powerful Adjunct to Therapy by Kathleen Adams. M.A., LPC to inspire us all to reimagine our relationship with writing:

10 Reasons Why (journal writing is a powerful adjunct to therapy)

One. Immediacy and Availability. A journal teaches containment, present-centeredness, and self-direction. The journal truly is “life’s companion.”

Two. Catharsis. It’s vitally important to have a place to scream, rant, rave, ventilate and express without fear of judgment or reprisal.

Three. Object Constancy. The relationship with the journal can become a living metaphor for the relationship with self, and from there, the relationship with others. 

Four. Repetition. One of the most important therapeutic tasks for people in pain is to break the silence and tell the story.

Five. Reality Check. It is true that writing it down makes it much more difficult to continue a pattern of denial.

Six. Self-Pacing. The self-pacing aspects of the journal can become a way of regulating and monitoring the life process, of learning balance and choice-making and natural consequences.

Seven. Communication. The journal becomes a forum, a testing ground for ideas, opinions, awarenesses, fears, and insights that are moving from the pre-verbal to the verbal realm.

Eight. Self-Esteem. The very act of journal writing, in which thought is put into tangible expression, is a life-affirming celebration of self: I write, therefore I am. I exist. I have a voice. It can be heard.

Nine. Clarity and Commitment. The process of reflective writing has a cumulative effect; after weeks or months of journaling, one may discover, I no longer have to be a victim.

Ten. A Witness to Healing. The journal is a wonderful witness, it provides an ongoing trail map and trip log of the journey of healing.

There is no right or wrong way to journal. Reply and tell me about your practice now.
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Didn’t drop it? Then don’t pick it up

nature lover

I’m a nature lover, an environmentalist, a believer in the church of natural great beauty. In this church, I’ve spent a lot of time picking up other peoples trash. In the process of being a do-gooder, I’m nursing a heavy resentment of anger toward others. Questions such as the following pop up like weeds: Have you ever noticed that litter is usually the detritus of stuff that’s not good for you in the first place?

I don’t mean to label, but I will. Indulge me. Notice next time you see trash on the side of the road; it’s the potato chips/fast food/cigarette smoking/beer drinking bundles of proof haphazardly discarded that indicate that unhealthy people litter more than healthy ones. I don’t litter. I’m a good one. These sort of pep talks pepper my beach walks until I catch hold of that righteous bitch and stop her in her tracks. And stop her from picking up the trash.

The false responsibility is that I should clean it up, that it’s my fault even. That to be a do-gooder and the good gurl I must clear out the mess others leave behind (figuratively and literally).

I am unlearning this heavily ingrained habit. I learned during epic restoration work on the sacred Hawaiian island of Kaho’olawe (bombed by the US military in the flawed quest of seeking peace through destructive means) that if I didn’t drop it, I don’t pick it up. Granted the stakes were higher there. We had unexploded ordnance training, which is a fancy way of saying there’s a high probability that grenade or other device that would detonate upon disturbance was around us. 

Compare this to the prior year. A clear example of my enrolling do-gooder: To pull over on the side of the road and give the kids a trash bag and say OK we’re doing our family community project of 20 minutes of cleanup. This was on Saddle Road. Between the sacred mountains of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa.

Semis sped by.

The fragile yet powerful ecosystem responds favorably to our intervention, but some still small voice reminds me that I’m just enabling people to desecrate the sacred land. It’s not my job to pick up other peoples trash anymore. The beach cleanups with elementary schools where we had a contest of who could get the most cigarette butts no longer inspires me. I don’t want enable slovenly behavior. 

It’s the flip side of sovereignty.

My history was dark and wild. I’m dark and wild. That is my true nature. And there is purity in that truth. And it’s beautiful. 

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Living in Shadows

Hawaii marriage retreat Amy Elizabeth

I’ve been known to detonate upon disturbance. It stems from living in the shadows of my true nature. Hiding from myself.

I got pissed Sunday. I came outta hiding.

I said to my son, I’m tired of feeding the resentment that your time is more valuable than mine. He had copious homework and still needed to change spark plugs on the truck. I compensated and covered for him. Shoulder aching and righteousness burning because I luxuriated in the warm wash of rage once again. Plus, even though I said I wasn’t going to, I scrubbed his shower. Tried, once again, to titrate my anxiety of mildew and screwy social roles into a finished product of squeaking clean. It never works. And then I ended up doing the dishes anyway.

On multiple levels I’m done believing the lie that cleanliness is next to godliness. It’s propaganda. It tells me reinforces the idea that I am dirty– sinful – tainted, and that I need cleansing to be pure (again).

My true nature is dirty and pure.

I clean I clean I clean.

I clean, therefore I exist.

I exist, therefore I clean.

If I clean up after myself, I’m a good gurl. I am worthy. I matter. Like the woman in the New Yorker cartoon after her near death experience says to her friend near her hospital bed, “my whole life flash before me and half the time I was folding laundry.”

I’m striving to be a good gurl. And, up until now, all this striving was creating a life of strife. In the micro moments that matter, I can see this clearly. I have that clarity of awareness that when I start doing dishes while my son is already doing the dishes, I’m thinking I’m a help, a true support, and meanwhile I nurse a manipulative mammary gland—the twisted teat that tells me he’ll like me more if I contribute. 

I call bullshit.

Really what I’m doing is I’m subtly enabling another man to think a women’s worth is based on a women’s work. He doesn’t need that any more than I need it.

Doing the dishes, I’m slowly burning the story into my mind that his time is more important than mine. This is a clear example of me conjuring my own poison. I’m aware that I’m feeding a growing resentment. This groove in my mind in which I notice that I’m spinning the story that I am spending half my life folding the proverbial laundry. (And I’m not even wearing the clothes to do anything fun.) The clean underwear I put on, which I quit folding by the way, I just shove in a drawer, well I put them on, in case of accident, and then get ready to fold more laundry

What I know for certain is I’m tired of folding laundry for half of my lifetime, aren’t you?

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Marital Bliss

hawai'i wedding retreat
  1. twenty-two years 
    of wedded bliss
    began
    a green-gold day
    with a hand-fasting.

the silk scarf–
tied,
not too tight, not too loose.

a Pacific Northwest
garden
gazing
gazebo

in Chetzemoka Park 
in a cathedral of cedars.
rimmed by salt water majesty,
bald eagles overhead

we flipped a coin,

to see who went first.
to share
hand-crafted vows.

i kid you not–
it landed on edge

2. i don’t recall–

who went first
or what we ate
or how much contra-
dancing we did. 

i can’t forget 

swirling and twirling
–diastole and sistole–
in passion’s embrace.
as we did the dance
of meet, mate, procreate.

laughing and crying,
thru living and dying,
heaving and trying,
moving and thriving,

we keep on keeping on.

on edge
we teeter
and totter
dizzyingly.

through hills of grief…
at times beyond belief
the boys maturing,
the parents dying,
the lines defining

smiles and limits.

3. each day brings 
renewed faith
in sunrise and
a delicious cup of
fresh brew from you.

thank you, boo

thou energies ebb
and energies flow,

our tender hearts
migrate
and find the
way
back

home–
to each
other

to the power of breath.
to the presence of now.
to surrender to gravity.

beckoning
the playful Spirit…

come,
guide
me.

to be loving, 
even when I don’t feel it.

to disappoint others,
but no longer mySelf.

to gratefully ground,
in the eye of the storm.

this perpetual tumult
finds
safety and shelter
in the stormy waves
this gig called life.

wherever we go…
come home to Self

forgive everyone,
for everything,

including Self.

finding patience with my impatience~

this is for-giving
letting go of the idea
of ever having a different past.

4. surrender to win
and
cease fighting.

striving leads to strife,

instead, we thrive on…

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sober creative rhythms

health

as I’m sitting here, experiencing tight hips
pondering persistent persnickety pain
no longer cussing on my cushion
my tolerance for discomfort expanding including heavy neck
invariably inviting greater pleasure, too, below the head

running and walking the track at sunrise
indeed aware that motion is lotion
the inner massage
so even when don’t feel like doing it
cultivate drive
devote to health

this births discipline
fuels creative fire

where’d like to be is feeling as good as yesterday
mother’s day,

breaking a 38-hour family

fast with a delicious meal
meditation
movement
quality time

of family love

one thing can help: pace
feelin’ good doesn’t mean need overextend
been there, done that, no more

what matters most is that i write to heal
as a sober creative woman of integrity
i send this telegraph out to the Universe
God hears it
Goddess knows it
Grace bestows it(self)

one thing i appreciate is the message from my therapist,
“Amy you get to put good things into your body.”
I almost cried.

wish i’d heard it way back when
grateful i heard it now…
finally i get to pass it along

you get to put good things in your body
maybe

it means a fast?
from food?
from media?
from work?

maybe

it means putting

good motion in your day
now i pause and go

mail a birthday card to a beloved friend
better than text
really

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sober creative nurturance

  1. it’s important to go fallow sometimes
    to be in the pause
    to rest and recalibrate to a new way of being

    recent months of becoming crone
    the elder in the household
    one of the wise ones riding menopausal waves
  2. do you know your ideal mothering traits?
    mine include patience, nudging to take risks, silence-breaking
    i’ve learned how to give myself these…

    as a child there were powerful creative women drowning in alcohol
    unable to set boundaries, to speak for what they needed
    to follow their heart’s desire

    running in the woods, swimming in the lake, dreaming with clouds
    these pockets of joy in an atmosphere of divorce, drinking and chronic doing
    cigarettes and cigars the playmates of my parents

    they provided what they could, coated in layers of fear
    i wanted to be able to make a mess, to be creative, to care less
    but i was told to be tidy, to clean up after others, to be safe

  3. i was afraid
    i was locked up inside
    dwelling in an overactive mind

    excelling at academics
    earning scholarships and praise all-the-while
    drinking alcoholically & seeding depression

    my maternal grandmother drank to death
    her liver failed her due to scarring and cirrhosis
    she died on mother’s day when i was 14

    i found recovery from my own disease 
    of drinking alcoholically
    nearly a decade later

    it runs in the family roots, my, mom, too
    danced dangerously with drink
    sober or not, i know not which, she died alone
  4. today i reflect
    on the gifts of being 
    a sober creative woman of integrity

    mothering two amazing children
    loving a hubby who just lost his parents
    bearing witness to the hardest year of his life

    menopause brings me closer to truth
    direct connect with the Divine
    Mother Earth guides me and is nudging me 

5. i’m writing more
i’m pausing more, painting more, paddling more
i’m offering more time in serving my clients


revive and reveal
our true nature

live an extraordinary life

no matter your past, trauma can thaw
love yourself as your own nurturing creative mother
and enjoy relational health with Self, Other, Spirit

sending you virtual hugs and creative blessings







Amy Elizabeth (a good enough mother)

Amy Elizabeth Gordon, M.A.
Survivor & Thriver & Giver & Receiver
call/email for a nudge for greater relational health

passionately guiding couples and families
Serving Hawai’i Island and beyond
in-person or on-line

2-6 day retreats available now
5 openings through July
808-936-3733

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Breaking the myth (of a perfect marriage)

As a couples counselor, I expect myself to have a perfect marriage. This puts undue pressure on us. It’s time to get right sized. I’m not anywhere close to being, thinking, acting, feeling, or doing a perfect job. I look in the mirror and I see wrinkles and flab. I walked down the street five minutes later, and I feel fit and sexy. 

I show up lovingly and assertively when my husband is in the hospital (with his fourth kidney stone). I am elated. Feeling spiritually fit. Then I proceeded to tell him all the ways I’m fit and that instead of dwelling in anger toward him, I’m choosing to take the higher road. Perhaps next time I want to just take the higher road without articulation. He would prefer that also. And in fact, he told me as such. I get to listen. He does tell me what he wants and needs. I can be clear in my reply. I cannot always do it, but I can acknowledge the validity of his requests.

Begin, Again, Here

This is where to begin. Mirror back what you hear your partner wants. If they don’t share, you can ask. What would you like me to do or say right now? Then offer it up, three times, to encourage it to soak in fully.

Later that day, I’m stroking my ego that I can puzzle quietly next to him while he naps on the couch, heavily medicated, and an hour later, I’m judging that he is not hydrating “enough” or screening all his pee to catch the 6 mm stone. It’s not my body. Not my business. How do I forget this? 

Interestingly, I’m considering being honest with my couples tomorrow. Telling them that marriage is hard. Do you want to chance to heal – to grow – to transform multigenerational trauma? Then wake up. Do this. Now. Advocate for your partner. Find out what they want/need and go there. I dare you. 

Start with Yourself

And here’s the kicker, before you can do that, you must advocate wildly for yourself. Therefore, trust yourself to no longer abandon yourself. Ask yourself, what do I hunger for, what do I need, what does my heart desire. And courageously share it with your beloved. We are not mind-readers.

You Matter.

Your Relationships Matter.