Author Archives: Erin Terese

About Erin Terese

The views of others inspire me, intrigue me and propel me forward. Exploring this life, through words.

Ghosts of He

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Not while we dined, but long after she told me, I thought of him, snuggled by his mother – his little hands in hers, holding them tight while she cried, both of them seated on the couch.

There was an afghan crumpled at the foot, which he spied out of the corner of his eye. He slid off the couch, plumped a pillow for which she could lay her head and motioned for her to lie down. Bending her knees as she did, he placed his palms on the back of her calf and guided her legs into a straightened position, better for her to rest and relax.  Then, grabbing the blanket, he pulled the worn and faded corners over her body. Almost as if he were tucking her in at night, he wrapped the ends tightly around her shoulders, thighs and feet, so that she looked like a newborn in swaddling.

In that moment, he placed his hands on her face and looked into her eyes.  Sweeping the hair from her brow and tucking it behind her ear, she remembers the weight of that moment.  In his death, those moments of innocence seem swept away, and I can see where it weighs heavily on her.

Without that memory she so graciously shared, I had loved him and would love him anyway – but folded with the gestures of care and comfort, his light shone even greater.

As he gazed into her eyes, wiping away the final wisp of hair stuck to her dampened forehead, she said “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” His response came ever so sweetly, past his little boy lips, “It’s okay, Mom.  Just please don’t do it again.”

Our coffee mugs were dark that morning, with grounds in the bottom we hardly noticed were there. The bitterness of each sip, rested hot and heavy on our tongues and burned on the way down.  His sudden death lingered for us both and served to bring us to this table.  “What was he like when he was a boy?” I asked. “He was so sweet,” she said, “sweeter than I deserved.”

*note from Miss Erin Terese*

P.S.  The short story above is the third piece I have written for a 10 week Writers Workshop I am participating in.  The exercise was to pick a mood and depict the feelings through the action (and scene) of someone else. The primary goal is to reveal the narrator and get a feeling without having to tell it.

In the interest of growing in my writing technique, style and tone, I will be sharing my pieces here.

I hope you enjoy!  xo

Dearest Poet of the North

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Dearest Poet of the North,

There have been several occasions whereby you have single-paragraphedly saved my life.  In order for you to be properly acquainted with myself, you ought to be aware of the circumstances leading up to where your words found me.

My humble upbringing and lack of any real culture or exposure, never seemed just.  How was I born into such conditions, with uncivilized creatures that know no taste beyond that of fried animals and music fit for the back of a mud-laden pickup up truck?

Fleeing the shambles of the unfortunate existence I was forced to endure, in a life of full of strangers, I made my way to California by way of an Amtrak train. Exhausted from a lifetime of trivial conversation, commands from large sweaty men claiming to know best, and completely emaciated and malnourished due to the aforementioned culinary fare which you could hardly expect me to consume – I arrived in the Golden State as a dark shadow – a mere speck of the light you know we are to emanate.

My sore eyes could hardly keep lift.  Should there have been toothpicks in my purse, I quite literally would have shoved them in my eyelids to prop them open.  But with lack of toothpicks or a phone to dial, I sat down in the bustling train depot, shoved my worn leather bag with a poorly sewn, mismatched patch, against the wall, and rested my weary legs not-so-gracefully on the floor.

Hours later, I awoke to a pair of workman boots with faded yellow laces, standing harshly next to my drool soaked cheek, pressed sadly against the cold tile floor. The boots shuffled away, and as they did, a piece of paper drifted my way, with your words written on it.  They found me.  I read them, relished them, folded them neatly in my wallet and propelled myself into the night, fueled by the sentiment.

One month later, faring no better, I kept your words with me where I went.  I took shade under the elm trees, and drifted off with your syllables dancing around my head, like sugar plum fairies coming to grant me a wish.  This time when I awoke, it was to the loud voice of a man, growling in his throat, asking if I was okay.  Sensing I was in need, he opened his home to me, bathed me in a porcelain tub with clawed feet and handed me a robe. Wanting more than anything to believe this was an act of concern, I smiled – but his dark eyes and musky scent suggested otherwise. But, from your words, I drew my strength.

In exchange for his “kindness”, I gave him my body.  When he finished, I clamored off his hairy chest, his lungs full of lies, of desire to help, so that I may write to you, my Poet of the North.  Your words brought me here, to this fortress of marble and gold coated artwork.  And by your words, I know it’s not long before we meet. Each word in your poem speaks to me and nourishes me like light for the blind. I know now, by the words you shared and the way they found me, that you meant them for me – and that I am being led to you.  A leaf on the wind and shining fallen star, heading your way.

Until we meet,

Yours

 

*note from Miss Erin Terese*

P.S.  The letter above is the first piece I have written for a 10 week Writers Workshop I am participating in.  The exercise was to create a first person persona narrator in an addled and/or altered psychological state who is writing a letter to someone he or she admires – using a formal tone.

In the interest of growing in my writing technique, style and tone, I will be sharing my pieces here.  They will all be fictional, so don’t be too worried thinking the scenes are true to my life (for those that know me personally).

I hope you enjoy!  xo

When My Hands Find Their Way

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When my hands find their way to you, they are instantly home. Words cease to matter since I can feel you now. Your words are beautiful though.  When you speak, they hang thick in the air and wash over me like the fog pouring over the bridge in the crisp dark of night.

They envelope me.

They seep into my pores and come to rest within my soul and every piece of light that shines within my darkest corners. And yet, even with the force with which you bring me to my stillness, the words are unnecessary, really.

Once my hands are on you, I know everything I need.

Your breath and warmth speak more into the soft of my palms, than your syllables upon my ears ever could.

I feel you. I hear you. I understand.

You are home.

hands

Yours truly,

Miss Erin Terese

Unarmoring My Heart

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It wasn’t until the death of my ex-boyfriend that I realized how strongly I had been guarding my heart.

It should have been evident from my inability to find another partner, but I couldn’t see it. I had grieved the death of our relationship, the future we planned for ourselves, and his presence in my life…  But when I grew weary of mourning, I shut it down – and the remaining pieces that needed examining, laid quiet within me.

unarmored-heart

The past few months have been a blur for me.  From the moment I was notified of his disappearance, I felt it inside me – he was gone.  But with lack of a body and no evidence to support it concretely, I had hoped for the best and went through the motions of searching for him and discussing all the possible scenarios with his family.

Never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned myself spending so much time with his mother and the conversations we have had.  She and I have been a support to one another in ways that words cannot begin to describe (but of course, I will try).  The stories we have shared with one another have shed light on parts of him that neither of us saw.  It has helped to connect the dots.  To answer unanswered questions. To see the man we both loved so dearly in a much broader sense.

When I received the news that his body had been found, it was as if the whole world stopped and came crashing in. There was a reckoning. Every thought and feeling and emotion that was left unaddressed came bubbling up and pouring out. I was unleashed.  Consumed by feelings of loss and regret, I knew I had to sit with it.  I had to allow it to surface and to acknowledge every tear and fear as it arose.  And I did. And I grieved the loss of him – heavily.

And it didn’t take long before the truth came to me and looked me square in the face: ever since our breakup, I have been dating with a guarded heart.

In some ways I had known it all along, but I hadn’t realized how strongly I had it guarded until that moment.  Yes, I have learned to embrace life and friendships and my passions in life with a kind of fierceness and unbridled sense of adventure that is easy for myself and others to see. How confusing then, for men who try to date me, when they can see how open my heart is for the rest of the world, and how armored it is for them.

How completely unfair of me to expect that I should find a patient and open-hearted Knight in Shining Armor to unlock the chains I placed, when I wasn’t even willing to hand them the key.

So now I must remove my armor.

In order to receive the love I so greatly desire to feel again, and to build the family I long to have, I must remove the barriers I have built, and allow space for love to enter again.  I must be willing to place my heart into hands that promise to hold it gently, and trust that it will be cared for and tended to, the same way I will tend to theirs.

And so begins the next chapter for me, of unarmoring my heart. Of learning to love again, unbridled, without fear of being broken.

I can only hope, and try one day at a time, to allow my tender-heartedness to be my greatest strength and not my weakness.  To remember that love is worth the risk and that it is always good to have it stretched open, even if it has to close back up for mending.  Like a beautiful flower, it can always bloom again.

Here’s to unraveling the chain, one link at a time!

Yours truly,

Miss Erin Terese

Listen to your Heart

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There is so much talk about paying attention to your breath.  Your life force. The way your feet hit the ground when you propel yourself down the path. The way you react when someone or something triggers you.

You must pay attention to your thoughts.  Pay attention to your verbal response and to your initial instinct.  Pay attention to what triggers you, why it triggers you and how you consciously choose to respond – then change the course of your conditioning.

But what about listening to your heart?

listen to your heart

Can you feel it open when you are with someone that makes you feel safe and understood?  Can you feel it flutter when you have stumbled upon something that excites you?  Can you feel it constrict when you feel threatened or misunderstood or wronged?

Have you ever placed your hand over your heart when something moves you?

Have you ever laid your hand over your lover’s heart as they share their story with you?

There is a power there.  An answer. A blessing.  A key to understanding.

I do agree that we must pay attention to our breath. To our body.  To our mind.  To our word choice and to our actions.  Absolutely.

But, I also think we must be aware of the rhythm and the state of our heart.  I am beginning to feel as if it is our greatest compass.  The ultimate litmus test. Our advocate. Our confidant. Our guide.

From my heart to yours.

 

Yours truly,

 

Erin Terese

A Request for Your Honest Story

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One of my favorite things in the world is stories.  I have an affinity for words, novels, short stories and tall-tales.  But more than that, I love to hear people’s real stories.  I am that friend that you mean to have a quick coffee with and somehow end up amazed when five hours have past – filled with moments of laughter, tears and a deeper friendship-connection.

I believe that we grow stronger and more compassionate with each story that we hear and with each that we share.  My plan is to gather a collection of life-stories.  Real stories.  True-blue experiences that have happened to you.

Yes, there are many sides to a story, but the side I want is yours.  What it was like for you. Include the “facts” of what happened, but more than that, how did you grow from this and how did/do you feel?

Now, I know you may be thinking that you aren’t a writer, but that doesn’t matter.  That isn’t the point.  The point of this is not to collect flowery, poetic, eloquent tales – the point is to hear what you have to say.  Plain and simple.  The world wants to hear your words and so do I.

Here is what I am looking for!

The Prompt:     Select one person that has greatly impacted your life.

  • What impact did/does this person have on your life?
  • How has knowing them changed you?
  • When did you realize the impact this person had/has on your life?
  • How specifically did you meet? What are the details?  (Follow the bread crumbs backward)
  • How did you feel about the person then versus how you feel about them now?
  • What was going on in your life when you met them?

This person can be a best-friend, significant-other, boss, stranger, neighbor, mentor, family member, lover, ex-friend/ex-lover/ex-significant-other, teacher, rescue worker, etc. 

one in million_193915

I want to know how this person came crashing into your life like a ton of bricks, or slowly making their way in, like the last drop of honey from a jar. Tell me the good stuff. How did it happen? When did you realize this connection was special? And more-over, how has knowing this person changed you?

Here’s what it should look like:

  1. 500 to 1,500 words
  2. Honest story telling.  Less perfect grammar and more genuine expression!
  3. Choose a title.  “Meeting Mr. Right,” “Me and My Mentor,” “The Day That Almost Didn’t Happen.”  Whatever you like! (I advise selecting the title at the end)  Or you can always select “Untitled.”
  4. Author Info: Name, Age, City, State, Country.

I am casting a net far and wide, to my loved-ones and theirs.  My plan is to gather your tales, weave them together with my words and insight into life and publish a collection of TRUE LIFE STORIES.  Not from formal writers and poets, but from the romantic souls that often leave their stories untold.

My hope is that through publishing these stories, people around the world can open the pages to words that sound much like their own and feel connected.  That through the telling of your stories on paper, eyes may find them and hearts may open to the beauty and magic that lies just around the corner.

I know that this will require a fair amount of effort, self-reflection and vulnerability.  But what a lovely thing to share!  Please take your time in crafting your tale.  You can write it to me in the body of an email or attached in a document.

There is no financial compensation for this, however, should my hope come to fruition and a collection is published – your name will be printed by your story and a grateful dedication printed in the first few pages.

Thank you.  From my heart to yours!

Yours Truly,

Miss Erin Terese

P.S.  Please email submissions to misserinterese@gmail.com . Thank you and I look forward to reading your story! xo

My Relationship With Silence

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Silence can mean many things.  It’s not just the absence of sound, but can mean so much more.  A purposeful retreat.  A kept story.  Hidden truth.  Stifled memory. A chapter sealed shut or a precious moment locked away for only your viewing pleasure.

Silence and I have experienced all of the above.  For better or worse, Silence and I have shared them all.

I would love to say that Silence is good or that Silence is bad.

Don’t we always want the black and white?  The right and wrong?  The clearly defined choice?  But the truth of the matter is, Silence lives in the gray.  There is a time and a place.  It serves a purpose.  It can be our friend or foe, but just like real relationships, it exists in our life to teach us a lesson.  When we look back, we can see how Silence was there to help us.

I don’t even need to dig far back into the memory files to give you an example.  I can rewind just the past few days and examine the relationship I have with Silence.

Typically, I am a sharer.  I open myself to others.  I listen to their stories and readily share my own.  Many people struggle with sharing their deep and intimate thoughts, but I share them frequently with my loved ones and often with strangers or new friends that I consider to be kindred spirits.

And since you, dear reader, are a kindred spirit, I will share with you a few details about my relationship with Silence.

silence

Silence Example #1

I am currently in the beginning stages of a budding romantic tale.  A new love interest has entered my world and I want to share all of the beautiful details with everyone I know (and there are many), but they are mine. And his. Ours. And so it goes that I give the bullet-points and highlight reel to a select few confidants, and the rest stay sealed away for myself.  They are far too precious and too valuable for sharing.  Outside of he and I, those moments are silenced.  Kept fresh and locked away with the valuables – unwilling to let words or time wear away the gleam.

Silence Example #2

Someone I hold dear to my heart contacted me the other day. We have a strange relationship, he and I.  Once lovers, now friends – but walking that fine line of how much is too much communication and what does friendship look like, post-romantic-relationship?  I was almost silent. For hours I rolled around whether or not I should respond.  Whether I should remain silent and seal our relationship shut (since this awkward phase frustrates me), or whether I should answer my friend and try to navigate this new terrain of friendship.

After hours of deliberating, I wrote him back.  For me, purposeful silence feels like punishment.  Not everyone perceives it that way, but I do.  And since I do, I simply will not do that to someone.  I either tell the person I don’t think we should remain in contact or I open a dialogue and work on mending the relationship.  But he is far too special not to at least try navigating this new friendship terrain.  Ultimately, we had a pleasant chat and made another small step down our new path as just friends.

Silence Example #3

My poor, sweet, patient mother has been dealing with my silence.  About six months ago I moved cities, changed jobs and all but altered every single facet of my life.  While this change has been welcomed, and wanted, and I am more than grateful for every ounce of change – it has also been extremely exhausting.  Unable to do any single daily task on auto-pilot, I was left drained and in need of more “me time” than I have needed in years.  Prior to my move, she and I would chat regularly and text often.  After my move, I all but fell off the face of the phone and went silent.

In reality, we exchanged a few texts a week and a brief phone call once a week, or every other week, but for her it was as good as silence.  We had a nice long chat tonight and I explained my silence and my gratitude for her patience.  I am well aware that silence can seem like abandonment, but I needed to retreat. My own personal silence was necessary to process all the change in my life.  So my personal silence, my walks in the park and books by dim lighting, resulted in a restful mind for me and worry for my mother. But she kept silent, out of respect for me and waited for my return and our lovely, silence-mending conversation we had this evening.

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We all have a personal relationship with Silence.  We share different experiences and view Silence under different light. It’s amazing really – how something that seems like such a simple concept, can take on so many forms.  Isn’t it?

Yours truly,

Erin Terese

P.S. This diary-like post was inspired by the Weekly Writing Challenge posed by the Daily Post on “The Sound of Silence.”

The World We Live In. And How You See It. The Choice is Up to You.

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It is an unfortunate part of life. Well, not so much unfortunate, as difficult. Challenging. Heartbreaking and gut wrenching. Tear jerking and mascara smearing. Stomach knotting and fist curling.

It’s tough.

But we are fortunate to feel it.

That which breaks our heart and pushes our mind to the brink, is that which builds our character and shapes the world we live in.

If you have fallen on hard times, you know this to be true.

If you have found yourself in a moment that you never knew existed, or in a scenario you never could have imagined.  If you have found yourself frozen in a moment where all you could do was remind yourself to breathe. If you know what I mean, than you know how lucky you are. Yes, lucky.

I am saying it again.

Lucky.

These moments. These awful, horrible, disgusting moments are what shape you. They bring you to your knees and show you what matters to you. Your heart breaks and your soul quakes because you are learning what you need. Growing your character, growing your mind and growing in compassion. By leaps and bounds, you are doing this. You are not learning by the slow tick of the clock, or turn of a page – you are learning from down in the dirt. Fast-paced and bloody. Beautiful and broken. You are on a crash course, on the high-speed track to freedom.

Personal freedom.

If you have yet to realize this, just wait.

It’s coming.

One day you will open your eyes and the world will seem bright and bursting with color. Faces will be beaming and arms will be reached out to you, offering a warm embrace. The world will spin and sparkle in a way you never knew it could.

But the leg work is yours.

You have to find the pieces to put together, and the roads to walk down.

You have to look in the dark corners, and seek out the light.

This is the nature of the world we live in.

It’s how you see it.

What you make of it.

How you let what happens to you shape your world.

And how you shape the world we all live in.

The World

That is all for now, my lovelies. Just a quick thought for you.  From the world, the way that I see it.

Yours truly,

Erin Terese

It’s Hard Sometimes

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It’s hard sometimes.

To say what we mean.

And mean what we say.

To follow our heart.

And show it the way.

To live for today.

And plan for tomorrow.

Letting go of the past.

And all of our sorrow.

With each ounce of pain.

And every tear shed.

Is an ounce more of wisdom.

And pleasure ahead.

For each stone over-turned.

And pathway walked down.

Will lead you on home.

With the joy that you’ve found.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yours Truly,

Erin Terese

P.S.  Hope you enjoyed this mini poem and that you enjoy this big, beautiful, broken, bountiful, breathtaking, beautiful, bold world.

Coming Home

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Home is where the heart is.  We all understand that, right?  We have heard it a million times.  We know the concept.  But where is the heart? Where do you place it?  Where have you anchored it?

I believe the reason that our house and our city and the people in our lives may at times begin to feel distant is because we move our heart.  We pack it up, move it out and start heading out of town…often without consulting the people in our lives and without much thought as to why and where we are heading. We grow and change and our heart wants for something more.  Something different.  Something other-than.

It can be a saving grace, a scapegoat or a ticket out of dodge, but the heart has a way of leading us.  At times we know where and when and why, and other times we are like children “playing pin the tail on the donkey” – spinning around in the dark just hoping we land in the right spot.

My life this year has been a bit pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey-esque. 

All of a sudden, my home was gone.  While my loved ones and beautiful house and all I had know for the last 11 plus years was still around me, my sense of home was fading.  I felt like a visitor in my own town.  And just like that, I knew it was time to go.  My heart was leading me somewhere else.  It was time.

Many times before, I had dreamed of moving to a new city – but for reasons neither here nor there, it never came to fruition.  Maybe it was because I was running away.  Maybe it was because I had more to learn, more to love and more to see there.  Maybe it just wasn’t time.

Explaining my desire to move wasn’t the easiest thing.  I framed it by saying it was a strategic career move, that I needed a larger city with more culture, and somewhat jokingly that I had dated my way through the city and that there were no men left for me to meet.  But the truth of the matter is, and was, that it was no longer my home.

For eight months I searched.  I drove hundreds of miles for “meet and greets”, networked my little heart out and all but tattooed it on my forehead that I was trying to move – and yet it didn’t come.

Was my heart steering me wrong?  Was my gut lying to me?  Was I wrong?

Then I got quiet.  I went back to the drawing board.  I laid it all out on the table and took a good hard look at my motivation, my inspiration and what would be a logical next step.  I had felt so compelled. So drawn.  So lured, that I had gone sprinting into the night without my flashlight or road map or cell phone.  I was blindly chasing my winged-heart.

Once I centered myself and tried again, I came up with a new plan.  A new thought.  And just like that, the pieces just fell into place.  In a turn of events that can only be described as magical or fated or destined, my city found me.  In just under one month, my thought had become my reality, and I was home.

I remember when I visited San Francisco for the first time.  I was eleven years old and my family and flown in from Wisconsin to visit my aunt and uncle in the city.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen.  To me, it was like a dream. I remember white lilies, steep hills, bustling crowds and breathtaking beauty everywhere we went.  I vowed right then and there that I would one day live here.

But like so many childhood dreams, it was put in a box on the shelf and long-ago forgotten about.

coming home

I have lived here for 24 days now and already this is my home. 

During my first week here I met with a dear old friend who upon seeing me, said “Welcome home.” Tears welled in my eyes as I realized it was true.  My heart had not taken me to a far-off destination filled with adventure and culture and new loves to be had (though I do hope it will), it had taken me home.

And while I do understand that home is where the heart is (and you carry it with you), it will also guide and lead you, and sometimes you have to answer the call.

Yours truly,

Erin Terese