My Soul is More Important than My Brand

Maybe having a dangerously full phone was the best thing that could have happened to me.

film / Colorado

Let me back up.

Over the past four months, I’ve been doing some major soul-searching, dreaming, and goal-setting. I’ve been saying lots of “no-s” and a few “yes-es”. I cut my hair, quit my job, started a new one, took an internship, got rid of a bunch of clothes, drove halfway across the country by myself, and feel more alive than I have in months.

About a month into the year, my phone kept reminding me: your storage is full. No room to take a photo. This was unacceptable. But totally understandable, considering I had around 21,000 photos on the little device. I wish I was kidding. I’m not.

So I deleted my Facebook pages app. And my Facebook messenger app. And my Twitter app. And my Facebook app. Most of the other social media apps had disappeared long ago for want of space on my phone. I’d delete apps until I had enough storage to take even just one more photo. Albeit, I have a problem, but the outcome is becoming something good. Just hold on. This story gets better.

Now I didn’t get notifications. I’d have to go on the internet to check these social media sites. It was a lot more effort and I found myself doing it less and less. Valentine’s Day was the turning point on Instagram. I got so tired of “hashtagblessed” couples that I logged out. It was too distracting. 

That was only a few days ago, but I’ve started thinking. 

I’ve been broaching my life with such purpose. Making large decisions based on dreams and goals. I’ve been asking myself why? Why do I shoot weddings? Why am I working at this job or taking that opportunity? Why am I doing this? Why am I doing that? Is it helpful? Is it life-giving? Is it necessary? I’ve been cutting out aspects of my life, but there was one area that I hadn’t approached with any purpose: social media.

That’s not to say that I don’t think about stories and colors when I’m posting (I’ll be primarily talking about Instagram, because that’s where I post and scroll through the most). I write with intention, I shoot photos with intention. It’s not haphazard at all. But I hadn’t really thought about WHY I was doing all this. Why is it so important?

I started venturing into the social media world when I was 18 with Facebook. It’s where I launched my photography business. From there I expanded to Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, Instagram. They’re not I stay in touch with friends, share art, and find community with folks with similar interests. I’ve made sincere, real friends through Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I’ve traveled the country and stayed with these folks. Social media can be such a good thing.

One of the most lifegiving things to me is to see beauty in unexpected places and to communicate it in a way so that others can see it too. Social media is a great conduit for this. One of the best.

But.

On Instagram, I’ve been doing a corporate life series, where I strive to find beauty in the business life grind. Which is cool in that it stretches the idea of beauty. But then I’m approaching my life with this question: what beautiful thing can I find to share today? I felt pressure to find something to share so I can keep up with my series. How silly is that? Instead of noticing beauty or seeking it because it’s beautiful, I was giving beauty a pricetag. The value of beauty was only in that it could be noticed and shared. That’s not good.

(It begs the deeper question: why do I take photos of anything? What’s important and why? I’m still answering these questions. That’s not today’s question, though, at least not here.)

I often respond to comments and notifications faster than I do to texts or emails. That’s not necessarily good. I struggle with jealousy of other folks—strangers and friends and artists. That’s not good. I sometimes post a particular photo because I think it will get more likes. Sometimes I even take a photo for that reason. Not because I am being creative. Not because I think it’s beautiful or sometime not because I even like it. But because I think it will be liked. That’s not good.

The war in my head begins.

I can’t get the words Bob Goff wrote out of my head: “Do awesome things and don’t tell anybody.”

But. Why wouldn’t you want to share them? Then everyone else could know how awesome it was? How awesome you are?

I made a list.

Reasons why giving up social media scares me:

I’ll lose followers.

People will forget about me.

I’ll lose touch with folks who are far away.

I won’t be cool (ha, like I every was).

No one will know about the neat things I’m doing or the thoughts I have.

Somehow my life will lose significance. 

I won’t know what anyone else is doing: FOMO.

I’ll have less creative inspiration.

But step back, Liz. Think about it.

Why does it matter if you know what anyone else is doing? Does it matter at all? No. There’s very few folks whose daily lives affect mine—and they know where I live and have my number.

And if people forget me because they can’t digitally follow me: then I guess I wasn’t that important to them anyhow.

Oh, hey. I’m back. I just took a break to tweet about writing this. I wish I was kidding. Check my twitter if you don’t believe me.

So what do I do with all this? I don’t want to quit it all. In fact, I can’t. I run several social media accounts for businesses and clients and can’t just drop out. There’s a balance, certainly. I’m not suggesting an isolated Hemingway-esque lifestyle.

And I don’t want to overthink and curate my online presence to the point that it’s artificial. 

There’s got to be some sort of solution. Even if I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s probably different for every person, but I know there’s got to be a better way for me.

My phone is my, well, phone. My music-listening device. My GPS. My camera on most days anymore. How do I isolate this one unhealthy aspect (which admittedly is mostly in my own head and not an actual problem with any of those sites)?

Well, for starters, I’m not redownloading Facebook and Twitter. I don’t get any urgent notifications on there. They can wait a few hours until I’m home and at my computer. I’m logging out of Instagram regularly. I’m learning if I don’t see notifications, I’m not as concerned with them.

Maybe this is the question I should be asking: what is my end goal in even thinking about social media? I want to be more present. In life. In relationships. I want to be actually DOING more awesome things with my life. If you look at your iPhone settings you can see how much time you spend per day and week on each app—and it’s scary. What if I read instead? What if I took a dance class or a cooking class? I want to be entirely fully alive. I don’t want to be a mental prisoner of this mentality that my value is somehow wrapped up in likes and follow counts. There’s got to be more to life than this. In fact, I’m sure of it.

Some of my best times have been without my phone or social media. When I lived in Greece. When I lived in France. The days I spent with Holdfast, running around Kansas City and not even thinking about looking at my phone. Times like that. Times I feel alive. I don’t think about what I’m missing out on. Any time you choose something, you automatically forgo other options, and what good does it do to scroll through photos of them? Why not thoroughly be present in and enjoy the day you've chosen?

I’ve met some of the most interesting people over the past few months. And they’re doing awesome things that no one knows about. And they’re okay with that. It’s sort of a novel thing, to not share highlights. To just live them.

I want to be more like that. To balance sharing honestly and branding and also just fully living without worrying about any of that. My soul is more important than my brand.

This world, it’s a tightrope. The answer isn’t getting rid of it all, at least not for me. But something needs to change. I want to live my life, even in the smallest ways, with great intention. Life is too short to be haphazard. I want my risks to be grand things like road trips and books and relationships, not time wasted on the internet. I want my problems to be world issues or the mess of relationships or poverty or justice, not social media, the number of photos on my phone, or the number of likes my last post got.  There’s got to be a way to do this, a way that still allows me to be physically, mentally, and emotionally present without totally logging out of or deleting every form of social media. 

I don’t have an entire answer. I’m still in the middle of figuring this out. Isn’t that how life is though? Figuring it out on your feet. Learning as you go. Struggling and hopefully coming out the other side more full of bravery or grace or something worthy. This post is just sort of a curtain opening into my brain right now. If you have ideas, I’d love to hear them.

Certainty Like a Drug for the Hopeful

Sometimes I wish we could trade all this

Creativity

Uncertainty

Wonder

In for

Just a minute,

Just a minute of surety.

Just for that ounce

Of certainty.

Certainty

Like a drug for the

Hopeful.

Certainty that these

Dreams

Will prevail.

Certainty that these

Hopes

Won't disappoint.

Certainty that this

Fellow

Will stay

And those what-if's

Will be silenced.

Certainty

Costs everything,

Demands everything,

Takes everything.

Addictive,

This surety.

Some days,

I'd trade all my words,

All my imagination,

Just for a glimpse that

This risk

These risks

This hope

Will pay off

Won't disappoint.

Some days I'd give everything

Just to know

The ending.

Risk is terrifying.

The end is uncertain.

But if I give up this risk,

Even for a second,

For the fast rush of

Certainty,

Maybe I'll lose it all.

Maybe I'll be hooked

On safety.

And suddenly these risks

Aren't risks.

They're sure things.

And sure things never

Changed the world,

Created,

Wondered,

Changed me.

Maybe certainty isn't worth it.

Maybe this achy-chest,

Short-breath feeling,

This terror-soaked anticipation,

This hope-it-all-works-out dreaming,

Maybe these risks

Are the crux of creativity

Maybe they're what

Keeps us alive.

May my desire for certainty die.

Keeping my hope dangerous and alive.

R.I.P. to my Youth

​This song by The Neighbourhood came on as I was driving to work and it was the perfect amount of pre-coffee angst.

This isn't what you think it is. Yes, in a way, drinking my coffee black and willingly--nay, excitedly--wearing blazers feels like a sort of conclusion to the younger portion of my life.

But. Don't for one second believe that I won't drive home at 4pm, windows down even in the 30-degree weather--shouting Taylor Swift into the wind tunnel of the interstate. Don't believe that I won't each dark chocolate for breakfast or guacamole for dinner. I'll still go to midnight showings of movies and now that I have weekends free, I'm going to drive until I hit a small town and explore until nightfalls.

Maybe my job means I'm suddenly more "grown up." But maybe it's just a job--not my identity--and maybe youth--like joy--is a choice. Don't complain that your youth is gone. It's your own choice. Choose it again.

And I'm choosing youth and laughter and stargazing and conversations with strangers in coffee shops and sage nails (that's the colour mine are now) and talking the long way home with the radio up.

When the Skies Look Like Ceiling Tiles

Three years ago I had a challenge. It came in these words by Mumford and Sons: I will learn to love the skies I'm under.

I moved from Chicago to Iowa in 2009 and I immediately missed Chicago dearly. I fell in love with that city fast and it hurt to leave. I missed the humanity, the white noise and overheard conversations, the grittiness, the coffee, the mystery, the way you can explore and never reach the end.

On those first listless Iowa days--that first entire year, really--I would tell myself those words over and over and over--I will learn to love the skies I'm under--hoping that I would believe it.

When fall came around, just over a year later, I sat in a friend's car as she drove out into the countryside (we live in the city) and I was surprised to realize that somewhere in the past year, I'd become genuinely happy.

One year later I bought a new car and began to roadtripping. So far I've driven to Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan, all by myself. And let me tell you: I've learned to love the skies I’m under. I learned that the Midwest is absurdly beautiful. Kansas is all sky and gold. Michigan is all deep trees and mystery. Iowa is rolling and honest, full of interesting small towns--and I could go on.

I began getting up at sunrise to explore with friends, and somewhere in all these adventures, I grew to love Iowa, this reckless Midwestern freedom. I learned to love the skies I'm under.

This week my skies changed. I started a corporate job, and while my training room has a delicious amount of windows, I'm mostly inside all day. But I'm so hungry to learn; I've learned so much the past two days about teeth and business and what to do during emergencies. I've been looking forward to this week for a long time. I bought a blazer and I found the only pair of dress pants that feel like sweat pants. My office has multiple places to get coffee and it's been a good week.

While I've been nervously and excitedly anticipating staring my new job, one thing I've been unintentionally bracing myself for is the anticipated absence of beauty. The corporate world is always portrayed as the antithesis of the creative spirit and, armed with lipstick, I was ready to brave the absence.

It's been funny though. Maybe it's just that the past three years have trained my eyes to find beauty everywhere, to choose to see it. But I've found it. The movies are wrong. Businesses aren't the antithesis to creativity and beauty. There's creativity and beauty everywhere because there are people everywhere. And people are the most beautiful. (And my office is actually really pretty.)

Sometimes all that you need to find beauty is to look. Today I found it in the face of my new friend, who describes her understanding of the stock market as gibberish. I laughed knowingly: I get it; I'm there, too. I found beauty in another new friend who spent lunch telling me about her children. I found beauty in the white table next to the window. I found beauty in the tunnel on the parking garage. I found beauty in a sole orange chair. I found a beauty in looking at x-rays of the mouth. Who knew that mouths are so complicated and symmetrical and amazing! There's beauty even here if only you choose to see. I will love the people around me. I will choose to love the skies I'm under, even when those skies are ceiling tiles.

I don't usually post iPhone photos here, but it's what I've been able to take at work, and I'd rather be honest than perfect. I hope my words and my pictures resound with you and you choose to see the beauty that's already around you, no matter if you're under skies or ceiling tiles.

Story Coffee Company

Katie and I met in the summer in France, nearly 5 years ago. Little did we know at the time, we'd both find kinship through writing and adventures, even after the summer ended. I went back to Chicago and Katie returned to Colorado, and we didn't see each other for over 2 years. It was August and I was shooting a wedding in Colorado, so I asked Katie if I could stay with her for a few days and adventure together.

Driving through the mountains, she played me the Bleachers album and it has since become one of my favourite road trip albums. We went antiquing and bought rings. She took me to a small tattoo parlor and I got my nose pierced for $10. 

When I decided to go to Colorado Springs again this week, Katie was one of the first people I texted.

"I'll take you to Story Coffee Company," she replied. I'd seen her and our friend Hannah post about the coffee shop and it sounded perfect. I agreed and we met at 1:30 in Acacia Park.

I parked by the park and scanned the surrounding buildings for the coffee shop. Little did I know that the coffee shop was right in the middle of the park itself. You see, the coffee shop is in a tiny house. Upon walking in, the small bar and ordering area is to your right. You can select a drink from the menu and I immediately noticed the branding and attention to detail.

The photo above is my favourite part of the menu: "We're delighted that you're interested in our story, and we hope to do justice to the stories of our coffees and the people who produce them. But please know we're fascinated with your story as well. Let's be friends." And this is why I immediately liked this cafe.

Katie and I both got the same drink. I don't remember what it was called (I was soaking the whole place in), but it was both beautiful and delicious.

Due to being in a tiny house, the seating is indeed limited: a few taller tables and a couple stools by the windows and a bench across from where you walk in, to the left of the bar. However, it wasn't absurdly busy, so Katie and I sat next to each other on the bench, "Live Your Best Story," arching like a promise or an omen above us.

Above the bench was this ledge full of bags of coffee and mugs, and above the ledge were photos. We met the barista Carissa and she explained to us that every coffee they carry was chosen with intention. They chose to partner with folks who are doing good in the world. They'd traveled to 300 coffee shops (pardon me if I didn't get the number quite right) and numerous places all over the world where the coffee was grown. They didn't take the task lightly and were very thorough, and you can taste it in the drinks and see it in the cafe.

Carissa had just bought airline tickets to Kansas City for the Barista Competition and I recommended she try out my favourite KC spot: you guess it--Doughnut Lounge. By then, we'd talked to her enough that I felt brave enough to ask this sweet soul for a portrait. That evening, I googled the cafe some more, and was continually intrigued by the process of both creating the coffee shop and sustaining it. Everything is done with great craftsmanship and detail and intentionality, and I'm thankful that such places exist and such friends as Katie know me well enough to introduce me to them.

The Hills

Call me unoriginal, but just like everyone else, I find the mountains to be awe-inducing. Songs mean more. The sun feels brighter. I feel invincible. 

I can’t help but thinking of cliche lines like: “I go to the hills when my heart is lonely. I know I will hear what I've heard before. My heart will be blessed with the sound of music. And I'll sing once more.”

I go to the hills.

What could be a place of danger becomes a place of hideaway, of retreat, of rest and of renewal. 

The hills. I go to the hills. Then another poem comes to mind:

“I lift up my eyes to the hills.

    From where does my help come?

My help comes from the Lord,

    who made heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot be moved;

    he who keeps you will not slumber.

Behold, he who keeps Israel

    will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper;

    the Lord is your shade on your right hand.

The sun shall not strike you by day,

    nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all evil;

    he will keep your life.

The Lord will keep

    your going out and your coming in

    from this time forth and forevermore.”

(Psalm 121)

He will keep your life. Then why I am ever so afraid? Why am I not deeply bold and deeply loving and decidedly steady? Here I am, deep in the hills, deep in thought, in the deep of night. And I’m praying that in this week, somewhere in these words and in this silence, I find strength and wisdom and renewal.

The Principal's Office

I’m sitting in a coffee shop near a window, eating fried avocaodos dipped in some sort of spicy sauce and drinking Sweet Bloom’s Columbian roast, made by a barista who called me m’dear in just the perfect way—delightfully old-fashioned and endearing.

I’m at the Principal’s Office: a coffee shop in a school that has been converted into an array of shops and cafes.  I pulled up, found a parking spot, entered through the front door, and hoped I was at the right school. Fortunately, just inside to my right there was a map that explained where each cafe was located within the building. I was relieved. I’d made it.

I swung left to an array of breads and pastries and a fresh-faced friendly fellow of about twenty. I asked him what was good. When he found out I desired coffee and food, he handed me a menu and sent me down a hallway to the left and around a corner, ending up directly behind where he was standing. “They know more about coffee over there,” he explained.

Around that corner, the area opened up to a wall of windows facing a bar. One of the bartenders greeted me and in a moment was over the take my order. Again, my query: “I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard awesome things! What’s good?” 

He explained that they had both pour-over coffees and milk beverages like lattes and cappuccinos. “If you want coffee, we can look at the options and figure it out together.” Then he opened the menu. “I like the salads; they have a lot of whatever is on it.” He pointed at a few. “The sandwiches are good, too.” “I like trying interesting things. What’s the most unique thing I can get? What’s something that I can’t get anywhere else?” His answer was immediate: the fried avocados. I didn’t hesitate. My entire life has been leading up to this point: drinking Denver coffee and eating fried avocados at a cafe in the mountains in the middle of the country. Practically perfect in every way (10 points if you know where that’s from).

I signed the receipt. “Thanks, m’dear! I’ll bring your coffee out to you when it’s ready.” Before long my fried avocados had arrived as well. I’d chosen a spot by the window, partly for its proximity to the light, partly for its proximity to the outlets. I’ll be here for a bit, catching up on editing and writing, and I’ll be praying. This week has changed me—is changing me—and it’s not nearly over yet.

Voodoo Doughnut

Tonight Amber and I visited Voodoo Doughnut for the first time.

These were my donuts: one was called the Ugly Bastard, one was like a little voodoo man, and another was covered in Cocoa Puffs.

Adulting and New Adventures

I woke up this morning in my 3rd state and 2nd timezone in 4 days. I woke up with some adulting decisions weighing heavily on my mind. Decisions I couldn’t put off. Scary decisions. So I went to a coffee shop a few blocks away to read and pray and think. I daresay I don’t spend enough time dwelling. Refreshing my soul and my mind. 

Per the recommendation of the two friendly baristas, a blonde gal in a maroon shirt and fringed boots and a tall fellow with a beard and a gray hoodie, I got the Ethiopian. They let me sample it first, which was the kindest. It is rather berry flavored but much less harsh than many of the fruitier coffees I’ve tried. In addition, Atlas Coffees offers free refills on both for-here and to-go coffee—all day. I’ve never had a coffee place offer refills on to-go coffee, and it might be the best thing.

I’ve been pondering my word for the year: fearlessness. 

I want to learn the places I’m afraid and press through them into something deeper. Something called fearlessness. Something called bravery.

In the past 3 days, I’ve driven over 12 hours across the country by myself and did acro-yoga for the first time (thanks to my friend Elaine for encouraging me to be brave). Both of these things scared me 4 days ago (hoenstly, I didn’t even know what acro-yoga was). But I did them. 

Small bits of bravery. And I’m at it again this morning. I am sitting in the table just to the right of the door, across from the trash and honey and napkins. I picked it for the proximity to the window. That’s usually how I pick my tables. I read a couple emails and made a couple phone calls and I was physically shaking partly from coffee and lack of sleep, but mostly from nerves.

But I did it. Fearlessness. I’m leaning into that word today.

Chasing Beauty in Kansas

Metropolitan Coffee : Hutchinson, Kansas

This is my view right now. Or at least it was when I began writing. I’ve since finished both the donut and the coffee and I have no regrets. Yes, this is a story about beauty. No, don't worry: I'm not just going to ramble about how beautiful donuts and coffee are. You'll see.

Right now I’m at a restaurant-style black table near a window at a coffee shop in a strip mall in Hutchinson, which is somewhere in the middle of Kansas. I arrived in Kansas last night at about 9pm and drove 3.5 hours through the darkness to reach Hutchinson. So I didn’t have a great concept of what Kansas was like until about 5 hours ago. But I did notice two things about Kansas: there were very few cars and there were thousands and thousands of stars. I’m not exaggerating. Yes, I’ve been outside before. I’ve seen the sky. But not like this.

It was all I could do not to crane my head out the window to my left just to look at them. Eyes on the road, Liz! But c’mon—have you seen those stars? How can you look at that striped bit of pavement when there are galaxies encompassing your entire existence? It was, again, all I could do not to pull over and get out of my car and just stare. Hours could pass; I wouldn’t know and wouldn’t care because this—all of this smallness of being and bigness of everything—this was part of the fullness of being alive.

But three things kept me from stopping. First, it was bitterly cold. Single digits and windy. I’m a Midwesterner; I’ve got plenty of grit, but I also only have 10 fingers and I’d like to keep that amount in the double digits, if possible. Second, I was staying with a friend and I didn’t want to arrive at 4am or some such ridiculously late time with my only excuse as: but, there were stars! Third, I was literally in the middle of nowhere. I hate that the world is such a place that this has to be a thought, but if someone killed me, no one would hear me and no one would find me because there was no one else there. So I didn’t stop. 

However, I definitely twisted my neck up and to the left on more than one occasion because when there’s beauty like that, it’s hard to look at anything else. It would be akin to the groom staring at the wedding cake when his bride is right in front of him. Why would you ever want to look at anything else?

In one moment of joy, I couldn’t contain it. I rolled in windows down, stuck my arm out into the 70mph bitter cold, and yelled, a wondrous whooping yell, like someone who has just seen land after a long journey across the sea. Ahoy! I have found something beautiful and I am alive and I cannot contain it all!

I didn’t always used to see beauty everywhere like this. I found most of the Midwest rather bland compared to the western states. Chicago and my camera gave me new eyes and I never want to go back. I want to be an excavator of beautiful things because I deeply believe that beautiful things are always found even in the most unlikely places.

Because in the light of day, Kansas is indeed flat. It is indeed very brown and very gray. Granted, it is the winter so perhaps that’s not fair to presume Kansas is always very brown and very gray. However, today is the only day I’ve been to Kansas, so today is all I have to base my presumptions on, so if I’m wrong, please forgive me and invite me back to Kansas to prove me wrong.

But here’s the thing. How you see things is a choice. Chasing beauty is less about finding beauty and more about choosing to see it. Rather than chase beauty, choose it.

I can drive through Kansas and see something rather mediocre and non-dramatic. Or I can choose to see the ombre of beiges as a tidal wave of untouched simplicity. Of a background to a story. Today, it’s the background to my story. I can choose to chase the sunset here (I’ve heard they’re amazing) and to gawk unashamedly at the stars. Life is short and I want to wallow fully in beauty. I want to be as excited about Kansas as hippos are excited about mud. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, and I do think Kansas is quite a bit nicer than mud, but let’s not get distracted. I want to every single day dive into life, expecting it to be beautiful, and knowing that it will be simply because I choose to see it that way. Kansas is beautiful. You just have to roll down your window and notice.