Beth Hautala 12/19/24 Beth Hautala 12/19/24

On Returning Home

I’ve been home since Monday night, December 16th, and my days in France already feel like a beautiful dream—as if I briefly stepped through a door into another world. Part of me aches to be back, even knowing the inevitable complications of international travel. The crisp mornings, winding lanes, stone bridges, and the weight of history linger vividly in my mind, interwoven with the rhythms of my days at Orquevaux. My time there wasn’t just a pause from life as I knew it; it was a deep immersion into the creative life I had been quietly forgetting how to embrace.

Travel, even under the best circumstances, can be challenging. But when plans change unexpectedly and the need to return home arises sooner than anticipated, the journey can feel daunting. Yet, what could have been a series of hurdles became a gentle unfolding of tiny miracles—moments of kindness and generosity that reminded me how deeply interconnected we all are.

It began with friends at Orquevaux, who offered rides to the train station and helped ease the first leg of my journey. Their warmth and care in those early hours set the tone for the rest of my journey home. I made my train connection between Chaumont and Paris smoothly and without incident because of them. My kind friend Reda, the concierge (see my initial post about my first few days in France), refunded my hotel rooms that I was unable to use due to my early departure (with management’s approval). Once I arrived at a different hotel near the airport for a brief stopover in Paris, the staff greeted me with an open-hearted kindness that made all the difference. They helped with my luggage, provided clear directions, and ensured I had a delicious dinner to refuel. They even surprised me with a birthday card (Personalized! Handwritten!), a small gesture that felt monumental in the moment.

Navigating the Paris airport—a place known for its vastness and complexity—was made easier by the kindness of strangers. One Delta staff member, who happened to assist me during check-in, reappeared serendipitously to help me on board my flight, guiding me with the kind of care that felt more like providence than coincidence.

On the nine-hour flight home, I found myself seated next to strangers who turned out to be unexpectedly generous and kind. Their conversation and camaraderie made the long journey feel lighter and more bearable. The transitions—customs, baggage claims, security—were smooth, and at every turn, someone seemed to appear just when I needed a little help. One particularly kind customs officer back in the States greeted me with warmth that felt like a gentle welcome home.

And then, of course, there was my sister. She made sure I didn’t have to navigate the last leg of my journey alone, getting me all the way home with the kind of quiet, steadfast love that she is so famous for.

These tiny miracles reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten in the flurry of travel and the exhaustion of life’s complexities: we are never truly alone. Strangers can become helpers, and kindness can show up in the most unexpected places. It doesn’t take much—a smile, an extra moment of attention, a thoughtful gesture—but it makes all the difference.

• • •

Leaving Orquevaux has left a void I wasn’t entirely prepared for. The breathtaking landscape, the gentle daily rhythms, and the creative breakthroughs were remarkable. But more than anything, it’s the people—the friends, fellow residents, staff, and leadership—that I miss most.

There’s something extraordinary about being in a space where everyone is fully immersed in their craft, where conversations flow effortlessly from art to life, from struggles to dreams. Writers sat in circles with me, courageously sharing raw, unedited work; visual artists revealed new ways of seeing the world; musicians infused the air with something sacred. Together, we wove a tapestry of connection, growing tighter and more profound with each passing day.

The staff and leadership were integral to this magic. Their warmth and attentiveness created a foundation where creativity flourishes. More than hosts, they became part of the experience, offering thoughtful gestures, encouragement, and the quiet reassurance that we could simply be ourselves.

I turned forty-four in France. I wrote poems and essays in front of a floor-to-ceiling window with coffee at my side. I wandered through woods and villages, gazing at rivers and ruins, breathing in landscapes so alive they felt sentient. I shared laughter over family-style dinners, bared my soul in free-writing circles, and let go of old struggles under moonlight. Somewhere in those quiet, sacred moments, I remembered how much I need this life of words and wonder.

What France Taught Me

To Trust the Gift of Time
For years, my life has been dictated by schedules, to-do lists, and the constant demands of caretaking and obligation. I think most of us can acknowledge the pull and necessity of a must-do reality. But France gave me time—time to think, time to wander, time to create. I was allowed to witness time as a mirror, reflecting everything you’ve tucked away in the busyness of living. It shows you the beautiful things you’ve saved for later and the messy questions you’ve tried to ignore. Both are gifts. Both are worth sitting with.
To Lean into Joyful Intention
Choosing my phrase for the year, Joyful Intention, felt less like a resolution and more like a reclamation. I want to happen to things—not the other way around. I want to show up for my life, to make space for joy even when it feels easier to retreat. France reminded me that joy isn’t about chasing fleeting happiness but about living with a deep sense of presence and purpose.
That Creativity is a Discipline
In Orquevaux, I was reminded that creativity isn’t always a lightning bolt of inspiration—it’s a practice. It’s sitting down, day after day, to do the work. It’s stumbling over mental debris, finding hidden treasures, and patiently coaxing words, ideas, and art into being. Creativity thrives not on perfection but on consistency and courage.
That Home is Everywhere—and Nowhere
I found a sense of home in France: in the laughter of new friends, in the quiet hum of creativity, and in the pastoral beauty of Orquevaux. And yet, I was also homesick. I realized that home is never a single place but a collection of feelings, connections, and longings. We carry it with us wherever we go, even as we remain pilgrims in our own stories.
That Letting Go is a Creative Act
Standing on a bridge at midnight, releasing years of heartaches and struggles into the river, I learned that letting go is as much a part of creativity as holding on. It creates space for new growth, new dreams, and new possibilities. It is an act of hope.

Coming Home

Coming home is its own kind of journey. I’ve returned to the same spaces and routines, but I am not the same. I’m grateful for that. I told my sister on the drive home from the airport, “I don’t think I’m afraid of very many things anymore. I’ve faced a lot of them, walked through them, and found myself waiting with a smile and a tiny round of applause on the other side.”

The challenge now is how to carry what I learned with me—to weave the rhythms of Orquevaux into my daily life. How do I protect the quiet mornings of writing, the long walks that clear my mind, the deep conversations that inspire me? How do I live with joyful intention in a world that so often pulls us toward distraction and busyness?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: I will continue to write, not just because I want to, but because I must. Words are the way I make sense of the world, the way I connect with myself and others. I will hold onto the lessons of France—the trust, the discipline, the joy—and let them guide me as I navigate the life I’ve returned to.

Looking Ahead

Yes, I want to go back. To France, to Orquevaux, to the surrpunding villages, the winding lanes and the rivers, and the quiet spaces that feel like home. But more than that, I want to return to the creative life I found there. I want to keep leaning into the questions, the vulnerability, and the beauty of making something out of nothing. I want to keep happening to things.

This isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning—a new chapter, a new year, a new way of showing up for myself and the world. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that creativity, like life, is a practice. And like anything worth doing, it’s messy and magnificent all at once.

Here’s to what’s next. To writing and dreaming, to walking and wondering. To showing up. To joy. To intention. To living with the knowledge that the world is vast and full of stories—and we are all called to tell ours.

Beth Hautala 12/15/24 Beth Hautala 12/15/24

Where the Dust Falls Away

Picasso said, “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.” These past two weeks, I’ve lived the truth of that statement. I no longer feel the need to apologize for creating things that don’t fit neatly into the boxes of “useful,” “productive,” or “commercially viable.” Those comparisons have no place in the work of being a creative person.

Wednesday night ushered in a gorgeous evening, culminating in a showcase and open mic night for the writers in residence. There were eleven of us, each bringing unique talents and perspectives to the table. Throughout our time together, we tapped into our creative resources, crafting new work and rediscovering the power of storytelling. Among us were novelists, ghostwriters, memoirists, screenwriters, essayists, poets, and storytellers, all working as meaning-makers in the world. Wednesday night offered the perfect opportunity to share glimpses of the work we’d been creating.

During my time at Orquevaux, I arrived with three creative ambitions:

To work on a novel that’s about 75% drafted.
To sort through and expand material for a memoir I’ve been kicking around.
To explore and revise poetry for a collection I’ve long imagined.

I landed on poetry. Over the residency, I wrote a small collection of twelve new poems and revised a handful of older pieces to form a chapbook I’m currently calling Kithship.

Kithship is rooted in the emotional and spiritual bonds we form—with people, places, and the natural world—through connection, care, and shared history. It explores themes of belonging, transformation, and interconnection. These poems weave nature, memory, self-discovery, and intergenerational wisdom into a tender, introspective, and hopeful tapestry. Even when the poems touched on pain or loss, I tried to trust in life’s cycles of decay, growth, and regeneration.

The tone is reflective and evocative, inviting readers to pause, notice beauty in unexpected places, and honor the profound ties that bind us to one another and the world. This collection will be my contribution to the Diderot Collection, a project that made my time at Orquevaux possible through a generous grant.

On Wednesday night, I read three poems from Kithship. For that magical evening, I stood among beautiful creators, sharing work, being vulnerable and brave, and feeling deeply seen and celebrated. It was pure joy. Together, we left our creative fingerprints on this landscape, a legacy that feels tangible and enduring. I’m certain I will return someday.

The Value of Art

On Thursday, the writers and artists devoted the day to sorting, organizing, and preparing to present their work. It was fascinating to exist in a space—both physical and metaphysical—where the intrinsic value of art was so deeply underscored.

In our world, it’s easy to diminish art as valuable only when it’s tied to financial gain. But here, we were reminded that art for art’s sake is reason enough. To create is to express; to express is to offer insight, perspective, and meaning. That is necessary in its own right. Especially now.

As Picasso said, “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.” These past two weeks, I’ve lived the truth of that statement. I no longer feel the need to apologize for creating things that don’t fit neatly into the boxes of “useful,” “productive,” or “commercially viable.” Those comparisons have no place in the work of being a creative person.

A Tapestry of Creativity

The visual artists and musicians opened their studios on Thursday for tours. Stepping into their creative spaces, seeing the paintings, collages, photographs, and sculptures they’d brought to life, and hearing the music they’d composed was breathtaking. Each artist poured their whole self into the process, and the results were a gift to witness.

While unforeseen circumstances meant I had to leave Orquevaux a bit early, (I write this now from a train speeding through the French countryside toward Paris), I feel certain that I am where I am meant to be. I’ve had the experience, done the work, and learned exactly what I needed to do, every step of the way.

Lessons to Carry Home

Summarizing my time at Orquevaux feels almost impossible, but here’s where I’ve landed:

Vulnerability is courage. I witnessed it in all of us—through writing prompts, studio visits, shared meals, and evening salon gatherings. We cracked open, and light spilled out.
None of us were here by accident. Despite imposter syndrome, fear, and uncertainty, each of of the artists present were meant to share this moment in time. We were meant to create, learn, and live together.
Art has the power to change the world. On every scale, the work we’ve done, the work I did, is meaningful and necessary.
Gratitude is a creative force. I’m deeply grateful for this time, this experience, and for each of you. Thank you for saving space for me and reminding me that Home exists within ourselves, within one another, and in the landscapes we encounter along the way.

As I prepare to leave this chapter behind, I carry with me a profound sense of clarity: creativity, connection, and courage are among life’s greatest gifts.

To those I leave behind, stay whole and wholehearted.

You are beloved.

—Beth

Beth Hautala 12/12/24 Beth Hautala 12/12/24

Joyful Intention

I turned forty-four on December 11, 2024, in Orquevaux, France. Even now, twenty-four hours later, I find myself repeating those words, letting them echo through me. There’s a kind of magic in the statement—a reverence for the truth of it, a disbelief at the beauty of it, and an abiding gratitude for the gift of this moment in time. It has left me a little breathless at the dawn of a new birth year.

I used to have what I thought was age anxiety. Birthdays made me restless and dissatisfied. I hated the creeping inevitability of them, the way they marked the passage of time I felt I wasn’t fully living. But this year, something shifted. While I can’t say I’ve entirely conquered my complicated feelings about aging, I can say this: I showed up for myself on my birthday in a way I haven’t in years. Not perfectly, but wholeheartedly.

Sixteen months ago, when offered dates for this residency, I chose to turn 44 here in Orquevaux. I didn’t know what the rest of my life would look like, who might need me, or how I would make it a reality. I simply said “yes” to the gift being offered. Gratitude, I’ve learned, is a powerful starting point for any story—and for any new year.

A Day Rooted in Grace

My birthday itself wasn’t marked by grand celebrations, extravagance, or extraordinary events. Instead, it was stitched together by the quiet, intentional rhythms I’ve cultivated here: creative work, fresh air, coffee, and conversation with new friends. I leaned into my day with grace—giving myself permission to let go of the exhausting mental refrain of “shoulds” that usually dominate so much of my life.

At the end of the day, there were songs, cake, and a tangible sense of being seen and valued. I was reminded that showing up wholeheartedly—for myself and for others—is a gift. A simple truth, perhaps, but one that feels new every time I experience it.

Letting Go by Moonlight

The most transformative moment of this birthday, however, occurred just before it officially began. On the evening of December 10, as the hours slipped toward midnight, I tore a page from my notebook and began a free-write. In a classic brain-dump style, I let every word, phrase, heartache, and struggle that had surfaced over the past several years (and sat floating at the top of my heart over the past week-and-a-half as time and space finally made room for me to “sit with it”) spill onto the page. These were things I was tired of carrying, things I was ready to release.

List in hand, I bundled up, pulled on my boots, and tromped down the hill in the dark toward the stone bridge that spans the small river running through the village. Beneath a cloud-muted moon, I stood on the bridge and tore the list into tiny pieces, letting the river carry them away. (For the environmentally conscious among us: it was compostable art paper and is likely already soil at the river's bottom.)

As I gazed into the dark water, the bells from the church belfry rang out twelve times. Midnight. My birthday. I laughed aloud, throwing my head back to let the moment wash over me. I wished myself a happy new year and walked back up the hill feeling lighter, freer, and utterly alive.

Joyful Intention

I’ve always loved the idea of choosing a word, theme, or phrase on one’s birthday rather than on January 1. For this year, my phrase is Joyful Intention—the idea that I will happen to things rather than the other way around. That I will choose joy, as much as I am able, in that process.

This isn’t about chasing happiness or denying the complexity of life. Far from it. It’s about shifting from survival habits into something more intentional. This time away has reminded me of the dreams I used to hold for myself, my people, and my community. It’s helped me remember the quiet, powerful ways we can make the world beautiful—not by grand gestures, but by showing up, creating, and connecting.

As I step into this new year of life, I look forward to coming home with a fresh sense of purpose. To digging back into my creative head-and-heart space. To celebrating the messy, magnificent art of living with joyful intention.

Here’s to 44. Here’s to what’s ahead. Here’s to showing up for myself and for the people I love with gratitude, grace, and joy.

Beth Hautala 12/10/24 Beth Hautala 12/10/24

Finding Rhythm

December 10th. It’s been ten days since I left the United States for France, and six days here in Orquevaux. Though it remains a bit of a struggle, I am starting to find a rhythm.

As someone whose schedule has been absolutely gorged with tasks, appointments, meetings, obligations, and caretaking over the past . . . well, many moons . . . it’s been challenging to sort out what to do with myself in the absence of all that. Wipe a day clean, and what do you do with it? At home, with a full schedule dictated by a must-do life, it’s easy to laugh helplessly and shrug. Nap? Be creative? Breathe?

But when the luxury of time lands in your lap, the question becomes more complicated. My brain, so acclimated to urgency, is suddenly at war with itself:

“Don’t waste your time!”
“Be creative, this is a gift!”
“Be grateful!”

And then, creeping in like an unwelcome houseguest: “Are you doing enough?”

But what counts as “enough”? What counts as “creative work”? And what if the energy required to create hinges on the deadlines of daily living? What if sleep decides to abandon you entirely and every anxious thought you’ve managed to wrangle over the past year suddenly takes up residence behind your sternum? And what if the energy in the space you occupy feels like home, but you can hardly swallow because you’re also homesick?
All hypothetical questions . . . obviously.

A Day in Orquevaux

The rhythm of my days here, rich with the luxury of time, looks something like this:

I rise at an unusual hour (for me), make coffee, and step outside for fresh air. The mornings here feel unhurried, as though the countryside itself takes its time waking up. I’m trying to walk as much as possible, letting my brain and heart soak in this gorgeous landscape. It’s quiet and lovely, and pastoral. The weather reminds me of mid-to-late October in Minnesota. The leaves have dropped, rain is a constant threat, and the wind rises out of nowhere. A coat, hat, and mittens suffice, though, and if you walk long enough, you warm right up.

Then I perch myself inside for several hours, feet propped on a stool, coffee within reach, staring out a massive window as I rummage through the corners of my mind to see what words might rise out of the dust. It’s a process. I’ve stumbled over all kinds of debris, making a neat little pile to shuffle over to my therapist later. I’ve also found some beautiful things I’d tucked away for when I had the time to return. Mostly, though, I’ve collected questions—bins full of them—which are excellent fodder for poems.

Lunch follows, then more walking and word-rummaging until around 5 PM, when a handful of writers gather for free-writing prompts. Sharing unedited work is a heart-pounding experience. The fear of being rubbish is real, but on the whole, I love it. It has sparked some of the best conversations of my time here. There’s a kind of vulnerability in throwing unfinished words into the air and waiting for them to land among strangers. The generosity with which they’ve been received is something I’ll carry with me long after this residency ends.

At 6 PM, the wine cave opens. Residents toast the day’s creativity before dinner, which is served family-style in the massive dining room at three long tables. Thankfully, there are no sorting hats or house divisions. We move around, checking in with one another on projects and ideas. The conversations often spill over into the evening, winding through art, storytelling, and the shared humanity that binds us all.

Yesterday, we welcomed a model and photographer to the château, and I participated in my first live-drawing session. Sitting quietly in the corner as the visual artists worked, I found myself ushering new words onto the page—thoughts about what it means to be a person with a body, how we navigate culture, health, and the various phases of life with all our collected flotsam and jetsam of experiences. It was powerful and beautiful, and I left convinced I need more visual-artist friends, more time in galleries, and more moments to sit with the raw, unvarnished human experience.

Lessons Halfway Through

Halfway through this magnificent experience, I’ve come to a handful of realizations:

Creativity is a practiced discipline. While inspiration exists, it’s far harder to access without regular practice. The distractions of life keep us from diving deep into our own hearts and experiences. Practice—not for perfection, but to keep the wheels from rusting.
Beauty and heartache go hand in hand. You can’t tell the truth about one without acknowledging the other.
You can find home in foreign places. It’s possible to feel as though you’ve lived somewhere your whole life and still remain a pilgrim in your own story. Both truths can coexist.
America is woefully self-focused. Our arrogance as a culture blinds us to the tenderness and humility found in stories that de-center us. We desperately need these perspectives.
The power of shared experience is transformative. Asking questions like, “Have you ever felt this way?” or “Do you experience this too?” opens doors to understanding, validation, and connection. The things we can learn from one another are myriad and beautiful, humbling and generous.
Time is a mirror. Give it to yourself in as much abundance as possible, and it will reflect everything you’ve tucked away in the busyness of living. Some of it will be beautiful, some of it messy, and all of it worth examining.

Orquevaux is teaching me that creativity isn’t simply about producing—it’s about listening. To the rhythms of a quiet morning, to the questions that linger in the shadows, to the stories waiting in shared moments over meals. It’s about discovering the courage to sit with what’s uncomfortable and finding beauty even in the things that feel unfinished.

As I pass the halfway point of this residency, I’m reminded that the work we do—whether with words, paint, or music—is less about what we create and more about the connection it fosters: to ourselves, to others, and to the world around us. This experience is a gift I hope to carry forward, not as a fleeting inspiration, but as a way of being. For now, I’ll keep walking, writing, and asking questions, grateful for every moment this place offers.

Beth Hautala 12/7/24 Beth Hautala 12/7/24

Heartmoor

Friday afternoon found me tromping through the woods and winding lanes. If the rain lifts, I’ll do more of the same today. Sleep, as usual in a new place, has been elusive, but the fresh air clears my foggy brain.

The sun emerged on Friday after hours of rain the day before. Whereas snow would be falling thick and fast back home, the weather here reminds me of the Pacific Northwest: gray, wet, and a bit gloomy. Perfect for curling up by a floor-to-ceiling window and putting words to paper.

I managed to capture three new poems on Friday, and one more this morning. My creative focus has shifted toward building a poetry collection while also experimenting with a few essay, prose, and memoir-esque pieces during my time here.

The residency hosts eleven writers alongside sixteen musicians, visual artists, and photographers. Our days are largely independent and creativity-driven, though some group sessions are beginning to take shape as we settle in.

Last night, the writers gathered for a prompt-led free-writing session before dinner. It was both wonderful and intimidating to sit in a circle, sharing raw work. The range of styles, interests, forms, and focuses was a gift—a reminder of how vast and varied our creative expressions can be.

Wandering the Landscape

Here in Orquevaux, a little river winds its way down from the hills, through the village, and into a small lake below the château. I learned the source of the river isn’t far away and is an easy hike, so I pulled on my boots and set off. Words fail me here because I can’t quite describe the sentient benevolence of this landscape.

It’s a place steeped in history—tragic and pastoral alike. The village has seen war and Nazi occupation, rebuilding, and now the quiet blooming of an art community with galleries tucked into weathered corners. For me, as an American, everything feels fascinating and noteworthy. Locals greet me on the street with warmth, but bemusement. Tolerance, even. But stepping just outside the village onto the tracks winding through pastures of sheep and into the woods, a different feeling takes hold.

Held is the closest English word I can muster. But John Koenig’s term from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows feels more apt:

Heartmoor (n.) — The primal longing for a home village to return to, a place that no longer exists, if it ever did; the fantasy of finding your way back home before nightfall, hustling to bring in the cattle before the rains come; picturing a cluster of lanterns glowing on the edge of a tangled wood, hearing the rattle and hiss of meals cooking over a communal fire, finding your place in a crowded longhouse made of clay-packed thatch, where you’d sit and listen to the voices of four generations layered into a canon, telling stories of a time when people could still melt into a collective personality and weren’t just floating around alone. From heart + moor, to tie a boat to an anchor.

I walked for almost two hours and didn’t quite reach the river’s source—or la source, as they say here. The light began to fade around 4:30pm, and while I never felt uneasy in the mild wilds, common sense dictated I turn back before darkness fell on the French countryside.

Creative Vulnerability and Connection

I returned just in time to join the evening writing circle. We discussed the vulnerability required to throw words onto a page and read them aloud, heart pounding, in front of a roomful of strangers with little to no edits or revisions. Afterward, we lingered over dinner, talking late into the night about famous films and filmmakers, stories written and unwritten, art created and lost. We spoke of the ways we are all leaving pieces of ourselves here—in a place that feels both familiar and strange.

This experience—writing, wandering, and sharing in this extraordinary landscape—has brought me closer to a truth I’ve long known but will probably spend my life trying to articulate. The act of creating is deeply tied to the spaces we inhabit, the people we share them with, and the histories that ripple through them. Here in Orquevaux, I feel tethered—not just to this place but to something more enduring, something that lingers just out of reach but feels wholly real.

Heartmoor, indeed.

Beth Hautala 12/5/24 Beth Hautala 12/5/24

Kith-ship

There are moments in life when a place wraps itself around you, like an heirloom sweater that has always fit, even before you knew it existed. It’s not just home—it’s more than that. It’s kith—a kindred kind of belonging that doesn’t ask for explanation.

I’ve been thinking all day about how to describe this place, this feeling. If you were here, I’d tell you how it feels like the older sister of home, like home grown wiser and wilder. It feels like every corner of this massive, beautiful house, this valley, this country has been waiting for me. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep (jet lag, of course), it was as if the very walls curled around me and whispered, “Hush, I’ve got you.”

I can’t explain it any better than this:

this place feels like the love story I’ve been writing for myself all along, tucked into the pages of every story I’ve ever told. All the sentient houses in my books exist in the walls of this house too. Somehow, it’s woven with everything I’ve built and known back home, as if the threads of my life were always meant to lead here. It’s so overwhelming, I keep crying—the kind of crying that comes from being understood by something bigger than yourself.

The word “home” doesn’t quite hold the weight of this feeling. It’s a word stretched too thin in some ways and overburdened in others. But kith, with its sense of kinship and place, feels closer. This isn’t homecoming—it’s kith-coming. It’s the moment you realize that belonging doesn’t have to be earned or found.

I realize this sounds far-fetched, and even overly romantic. But it’s true. If not for the life I’ve built elsewhere, I think I’d stay.

. . .

My primary goal for today was to create an absence of blank pages. (Blank pages are tremendously overwhelming as a writer, and even if I just throw a handful of bad sentences against a page, it gives me a starting point) That, combined with a strong dose of imposter syndrome left me feeling inadequate in ways I don’t love.

It’s no small thing to be in this space, on this adventure, in the company of many talented and accomplished (and considerably younger) artists, writers, musicians, and creatives. I’m not downplaying my own contributions here, this isn’t a validation bid. I’m simply acknowledging that being a human with a brain and a deep-rooted desire to create beautiful things is more often challenging than not. And even in faraway, inspiring places, this remains true.

I have been wary of that voice that keeps whispering, “Now, don’t waste this time! Make use of every minute!” As if only “productive” minutes are valuable and worth counting. I am trying to shut that voice down, and as a tiny physical act, I abandoned a desk, and instead moved the large wingback chair in my bedroom in front of the window this morning, propped my computer on my lap, and sat with a blank screen for quite some time, staring out at the morning landscape and focusing on the feelings that kept rising to the surface.

There were many.

There is a moment in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden when Mary turns her found key in a found lock, in a found door, and passes through, and then into something she didn’t realize she was looking for. A whole world opens to her and the story begins (truly begins) with that passage in the story.

"She put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, and found the keyhole. She put the key in and turned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn. And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if anyone was coming. No one was coming, so she turned the handle and pushed the door open and slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement and wonder and delight."

And this is how this morning felt, for me. I turned a key, with both hands, (and it has taken some doing) . . . but along the way, I am discovering something wonderful. I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do with it yet, but my page is no longer blank. And that’s a marvelous place to begin.

KITHSHIP

Orion hangs at an angle, belt-buckled low over
the eastern horizon, which rises into breath-catching hills, before
sliding into the small valley. Here, kithship cups oaks, maples, hemlocks, and
my own small soul, held in the dark.

Gloaming season, this. Myth tugging on the hand of reason like
a child, only wilder, more urgent, and
you can feel it, if you shed your shoes, and risk losing things
you once thought were sacred. Because,
it’s all sacred—

The bells in the church belfry, and these hills, and the heron
rising out of the mist, all crone-angled and wizened, disguised as
she is in feathers and crane-shaped memories.

My blood is singing here, something tugging at the space behind
my ribs where I am most myself—seen and unseen, and I cannot decide
if it is the ache of sisterhood spaces or memory. Can you come home
to places you do not remember being?

Rhodos, Orion’s sister lingers here in the clambering winter roses
clutching the stone wall in this mist-laden morning. A pair of swans are grazing
on the lake bottom and do not mind the rain. Nor I, held
liminal in the kinship of sentient places, my own self a singular fingerprint
on the portrait of this landscape’s face.

Beth Hautala 12/4/24 Beth Hautala 12/4/24

Day Three. Paris and Orquevaux.

Travel days have a peculiar way of humbling me—a subtle reminder that, despite my best-laid plans, I’m not entirely in control. Far from it.

Today began with breakfast, as before, but with a touch of cunning. I assembled a stashed-away baguette with cheese and prosciutto, pilfered (with a wink and no regrets) from the breakfast spread to be savored on the train later. It felt like a small victory, a gesture of preparedness that would soon become vital.

Before leaving, I scouted the train station, trying to get my bearings early. I tackled essentials: cash from the ATM and the discovery of bathrooms that required proof of a ticket and a one-euro fee to use. The audacity! As an American, I’ve taken the accessibility of clean public restrooms for granted. But here, it’s a delightful (albeit inconvenient) reminder of cultural differences.

Packing and repacking ensued—an art form at this point. Would it all fit? Barely. And far too heavy to carry down the flights of stairs, thanks to a broken elevator. A tremendously strong cleaning lady, who spoke no English but conveyed her determination in French, refused to let me lift a thing. She carried everything with astonishing ease while I followed in sheepish gratitude.

Back at the station, I found a growing gathering of fellow residency participants, each with the same nervous energy that accompanies group travel. We exchanged polite smiles, small talk about where we were all from, and what art discipline we all engaged with, and eventually shuffled through the ticketing line and onto the train together.

The train ride was… more stressful than I’d like to admit. My most pressing questions were as follows:

1) How long do I have between each stop? (I never quite figured it out.)
The intervals seemed dictated more by the ebb and flow of passengers than by a precise schedule. My fear of missing my stop and being swept deeper into the French countryside loomed large. And

2) Bathrooms—always a point of anxiety. And so for those with similar concerns, and especially for those who must sit to use such facilities, I’ll offer these tips:

Always carry toilet paper or a reasonable substitute. It seems rarely guaranteed in public restrooms here.
Use restaurant or shop facilities when needed. You don’t always have to buy something, though it’s a nice gesture.
Carry hand wipes or sanitizer. Soap and water are also not assured luxuries.

Despite the worries, the ride itself was lovely and quiet. Almost too quiet. There seemed to be an unspoken rule about noise. People whispered into phones, music stayed confined to headphones, and children—if there were any—seemed to have been silenced by cultural magic unfamiliar to me.

After numerous stops in other small towns, and after consuming my breakfast-assembled sandwich (quietly), we all disembarked in Chaumont. Warm and welcoming staff from the château met us, tagged our luggage with our assigned sleeping quarters, and piled us into three vans for the final leg of the journey. The half-hour drive wound through hills and darkness until the village of Orquevaux spilled out before us. The château, glowing warmly on the hill, invited us further up and further in. This quote from C.S Lewis feels particularly relevant and moving to me tonight . . .

“I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this. . . Come further up, come further in!”
—C.S. Lewis's The Last Battle

We were greeted with hot coffee, tea, cookies, and biscuits in the salon. One by one, we were shown to our rooms. Mine? The Library Bedroom. Perched at the very top and center of the grand divided staircase, it’s a room with creaking floors and expansive charm. The whole house, or as much as I have seen of it thus far, is breathtakingly old, odd, elegant, and warm, like a grand old lady who has grown accustomed to her rough edges and chooses to display rather than hide them.

A cheese and champagne welcome at 6:00 PM followed our bedroom tours, where we met and were welcomed by our gracious residency co-founders and co-directors. Beulah and Ziggy. Dinner came next, served family-style, and we lingered over it until 8:30 when the quiet exodus to bed began.

And so, with a collection of new friends, a swirl of writing ideas beginning to take shape, and the anxiety of a travel day behind me, I fell into bed.

Only to wake at 1:30 AM with the horrifying realization that my phone had stopped charging. A small matter, merely a trifle, when not traveling abroad.
My lifeline, housing my entire itinerary, was at 18% battery and rapidly declining. Panic did, in fact, ensue. I tried every hack I knew—cleaned the charging port, switched cords and chargers, and finally attempted a system update I hadn’t noticed prior, praying the battery would last long enough to finish the update. It did, barely, but still . . . no charge.

By 2:00 AM, my imagination had me navigating a return trip to Paris, hotels, trains, and airports without my tiny, stupid, indispensable black box. On the brink of tears, riding waves of anxiety, and just as my phone hovered on the brink of death, the charging indicator light suddenly sprang to life. No cause was determined one way or another. Regardless of cause or effect, gratitude and relief swept over me.

Sleep, however, now eludes the traveler.

Instead, I’m writing this blog post, reflecting on the absurd dependency I’ve developed on a single device. It’s a lesson, perhaps, in preparation. Or mindfulness? Or maybe just in the kindness of answered prayers at 2:00 AM.

Tomorrow begins anew, and despite the frustrations and mild inconveniences, I can’t help but marvel at the quiet magic of this place.
It’s the kind of magic that humbles you, and reminds you that not everything needs to go according to plan for an experience to be extraordinary. In fact, you are generally better off for being pulled further up and further in to the wonder and mystery of it all.

Beth Hautala 12/3/24 Beth Hautala 12/3/24

Day Two. Paris, France

I started writing this blog with the idea that it would be a good place to direct friends and family asking travel-related questions whilst I am away, but as I sit here tonight in my wee hotel room in the heart of Paris, I realize I am writing mostly for myself. I am going to look back, and this will seem like a dream—one of those lovely gauzy ones, rim-lit with satisfaction and the certainty of gilt-edged joy.

As it turns out, Victor Hugo, the renowned French writer, was correct: "Sleep is to the soul what the stomach is to the body." This morning, I woke at a reasonable time, after having starved my soul for sleep the prior 29 hours in an attempt to avoid too much jet lag, and found that not only does sleep work wonders, but coffee does too. My charming hotel, located precisely 500 steps from Gare de l’Est (a central train station and metro hub for Paris), also features a delightful à la carte breakfast of typical French fare—breads and pastries, meats, cheeses, fruit, and, most importantly, coffee.

Two cups later and a wave to my friend, the elderly concierge—who did not advise me to take an umbrella and later blamed me for not asking for one (note the foreshadowing)—I skipped out the door towards the metro station, determined to master its labyrinthine system before leaving the city tomorrow.

First Stop: Café Verlet

On my list of must-visit places for the day was Café Verlet (256 Rue Saint-Honoré, 75001 Paris), located in Paris's 1st arrondissement. This historic establishment, founded in 1880, is renowned for its exceptional selection of single-origin coffees and fine teas. Its Belle Époque-inspired décor, complete with wooden tables, mirrors, and a distinctive half-moon glass roof, lends the space an undeniable charm.

For lunch, I enjoyed a creamy bowl of pumpkin and lentil soup, served with crusty bread and paired with a café au lait. As I sipped and savored, I was entertained by the symphony of languages swirling around me. The mingling tones felt like music—a chorus of culture, rhythm, and expression.

The Passage des Panoramas

The metro—Line 7—brought me next to the Passage des Panoramas, located in Paris's 2nd arrondissement between Boulevard Montmartre and Rue Saint-Marc. Inaugurated in 1799, it is the city’s oldest covered passageway and a beacon of historical and architectural intrigue. The glass roof, beautifully illuminated by approximately 100 million tiny Christmas lights (an estimate, but truly a spectacle), allowed natural light to cascade over the shops and stalls below.

This passage is more than just a shopping destination; it’s a cultural landmark. It was here that I found trinkets for my children, which I will not disclose in detail lest they read this. *Waves to Hautala children!*

Librairie Jousseaume

Nestled within the Passage des Panoramas is Librairie Jousseaume, one of Paris’s oldest bookstores, established in 1826. The shop’s shelves are lined with antiquarian and second-hand books—literature, history, poetry, and illustrated works from the 19th and 20th centuries. Prints, engravings, and postcards also abound.

I nearly purchased a collection of Walt Whitman’s works translated into French, but beyond the fact that I could not read it (being unfortunately singularly lingual), I’m not a huge fan of Whitman. He always strikes me as a rather self-serving fellow, save for his poem "Song of Myself" and its delightful reference to a barbaric yawp:

"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk."

Avenue de l’Opéra

Next, I wandered to Avenue de l’Opéra, a prominent thoroughfare running northwest from the Louvre to the Palais Garnier, the city's historic opera house. Designed as part of Baron Haussmann’s extensive renovations of Paris in the 19th century, the avenue offers a striking perspective of the Palais Garnier. Its grand façade becomes increasingly imposing as you approach, intentionally designed to impress.

Lined with elegant Haussmannian buildings, Avenue de l’Opéra is home to a variety of shops, cafés, and restaurants. I made a point to stop at Cédric Grolet Opéra, a renowned patisserie located at 35 Avenue de l’Opéra. As fate would have it, the pastry chef himself was filming a new video for Instagram while I stood outside, watching him create something delicious. It was a moment of layered irony—the intersection of creativity, food, words, and technology in real-time. Paris, after all, is nothing if not a city of endless loops in inspiration.

And Then, It Rained.

(with unnecessary and significant vigor).

As I lingered on the avenue, the skies opened. I contemplated ducking into a café but decided instead to make a quick market stop for cheese, bread, and flowers (how could I not buy flowers in Paris!?) before navigating my soggy return through the city. Seven metro stops later, I arrived back at my hotel, dripping, grinning, and thoroughly content.

Tonight, Paris feels like a dream—gauzy and rim-lit, just as I imagined.

Beth Hautala 12/3/24 Beth Hautala 12/3/24

Day One. Paris, France

Travel days are odd. The disconnection with the ground undoes me a bit, and as much as I long for wings, I am perhaps better off without them. The liminal reality that happens between airports, over oceans, and across time zones messes with me to an unparalleled degree. However, this is my consistent travel experience, and I’ve decided to embrace it, making my first travel day as full and joyful as possible.

I left Minnesota at approximately 4:30 PM on December 1st and landed in Paris, France, at 7:40 AM on December 2nd, after roughly seven hours in the air and across multiple time zones.

I, unfortunately, never sleep on planes. Instead, I read the books I lined up in advance and watched The Holiday, with the unflappable Kate Winslet keeping me company. The flight was uneventful and smooth as Parisian butter.

Disembarking by bus, clearing customs, and navigating passport checks was a smooth process as well. Despite the immediate culture shock and language barrier, I managed to make my way toward the train systems, intending to take the train south into the city and disembark at the station near my hotel.

Ah yes. Best-laid plans.

Even the most thorough research cannot prepare you for the chaos of an international train station. Unfortunately, even pictorial signage wasn’t quite enough to ensure proper city connections and ticket purchases. After struggling for what felt like an eternity, I made my way back to the main floor and hailed a taxi. Immediate relief followed, with a marvelous driver who chatted with me, laughed at my pitiful attempts at French, played American pop music on the radio (to my amusement), and landed me safely at my hotel door with a cheery “Welcome to the magic of Paris, mademoiselle!” before scurrying off to save another hapless American from themselves.

It was roughly 10:00 AM, and my room was nowhere near ready. However, the kindly, elderly concierge collected my bags, offered me water, and sent me on my merry way out into the city armed with a half-charged cell phone, a tiny croissant, and my sleep-deprived wits. It was grand! I wandered, people-watched, grinned like an American fool, avoided pigeons and the metro system, and took pictures of buildings older than my country with quiet delirium.

Lunch found me at La Petite Bougnate, where the waitress gestured to a table in the corner, offered me a menu, and told me the French Onion Soup was the best in Paris (with a wink). She was not, in fact, exaggerating. Between the soup and a generous slice of avocado toast topped with salmon tartare and a soft egg, I confess I cried a few tears of joy over my first Parisian meal.

Returning to my hotel with hopes of finding my room ready, my concierge friend shook his head sadly and offered me another tiny croissant as consolation. At my request, he hailed a taxi, and I decided to make my way to the Louvre. I had purchased tickets the previous day, thinking I would go if I felt up to it. I did not, in fact, feel up to it, having been awake for 24 hours at that point. But as mentioned before, I decided to embrace the chaos and the experience.

“How do you recommend I return to the hotel?” I asked my elderly concierge friend before hopping into the taxi. He shrugged.
“Take Line 7.” His English is far better than my French, and his grin, multi-lingual.
“I’ll be lost for sure,” I laughed. He shrugged again.
“Then enjoy being lost!”
I decided to deal with that after crying over art—which I did.

The Louvre was everything they say it is, and more. I do, however, recommend engaging with the experience after more sleep than I had.
My ticket, purchased online, ushered me into the entrance just beneath the glass pyramid called the Pyramide du Louvre and into what felt like the heart of something sacred—and perhaps it is.

I made my way through an exhibition of Guillaume Lethière and another dedicated to the life and work of Gilles before wandering through the hall of ancient Roman sculptures and then following the trail of masterpieces. Gorgeous paintings stretched as far as my tired feet could carry me, culminating in a room dedicated to the Mona Lisa. And yes, I cried upon viewing that gorgeous and unassuming work of art in person for the first time.

But perhaps my favorite piece of art was what many call “the headless angel.”

Standing at the top of the Daru staircase, the Winged Victory of Samothrace is perched on a rough stone base resembling the broken bow of a ship. She seems to be only just paused in motion, perching in stone over the whole of the Louvre itself—perhaps the whole of Paris.
The monument was found on the island of Samothrace, in the sanctuary of the ‘Great Gods’ to whom people prayed for protection from the dangers of the sea. The figure, spectacularly placed in a rock niche high above the sanctuary, was designed to be seen in three-quarter view from the left—a view which highlights the billowing cloak and clinging ‘wet drapery.’ The wings, the warship, the sanctuary… all point to the goddess Nike, the messenger of victory.
To me, she felt like someone I’d met before, in a dream or a memory. I stood beneath her the longest, wishing I could better name my collection of emotions.

The return trip to my hotel loomed with more than a bit of trepidation as I made my way toward the exit, following the mass of fellow tourists speaking more languages than I could hope to decipher with my tired brain or translator app.
“Line 7,” I whispered to myself repeatedly while checking my phone for the time, the metro app, and (more alarmingly) the rapidly shrinking battery life.

The metro reminded me very much of the Underground in London—and while I haven’t traveled it in more than twenty years, the principles still applied: Purchase a ticket, board the correct train, and ride it to your stop. The process was complicated by my absence of sleep, but without too much confusion, with the help of a bemused Parisian who demonstrated how to use my ticket at the automated gate, and the guidance of a slightly more confident American (and her unsuspecting friends, whom I trailed briefly), I managed to find the proper train line, ride it to the proper stop, and make my way back to my hotel.
My friendly concierge offered me a wide grin and a high-five for not being permanently lost in Paris on my first day.

With my room finally at my disposal, a hot shower and fresh clothes, and sleep staved off for just a bit longer, I crossed the street to a tiny corner lounge and toasted to myself with a glass of wine. The bottle emerged from the basement through a literal trapdoor—a wine cave indeed.

One poem later, pajamas donned, and curtains drawn, I concluded my first day in Paris after 29.5 hours without sleep. Magic is real.

FRENCH ONION SOUP

Today, I have lost track of hours, and
perhaps the concept of time,
in general. I traveled
ahead, in order to visit the legacies of
da Vinci and a perfectly aged
glass of merlot. I ordered French Onion Soup
for lunch, and the waitress insisted
(with a wink) that it
was the best in Paris.
I believe her.
It made me cry with joy, a bit, at
exactly 11:11 AM, and
after all these hours without sleep,
I am convinced:
Magic is real
after all.

Beth Hautala 12/1/24 Beth Hautala 12/1/24

On Departures

There’s something about departures that sticks in the heart, isn’t there? They’re both an end and a beginning, a moment of standing still before stepping forward.

There’s something about departures that sticks in the heart, isn’t there? They’re both an end and a beginning, a moment of standing still before stepping forward. Departures are the punctuation marks in our stories—sometimes a pause, sometimes a leap, but always a signal that something is about to change.

Right now, I’m standing on the edge of a departure, suitcase by the door and heart full of questions. Leaving is never simple. It’s a delicate braid of excitement and longing, anticipation and grief. To leave one place is to reach for another, but it’s also to acknowledge the quiet ache of letting go.

There’s the practical side of leaving, of course. Tickets are purchased, bags are packed, and plans are made. I’ve checked my lists (twice, maybe three times) to be sure I’ve got everything I need—passport, favorite pen, snacks for the journey. But the real work of departure isn’t in the packing. It’s in the heart.

To depart is to trust that what you’re leaving behind will still be there, in some form, when you return—or, perhaps, to accept that it won’t. It’s a reckoning with the inevitability of change.

And yet, departures carry their own kind of beauty. They are acts of bravery, aren’t they? To step into the unknown, to leave behind what is familiar, to walk toward something that hasn’t yet taken shape—this requires a specific kind of courage.

Departures are filled with questions:

What will I find when I get there?
What will I lose along the way?
How will this change me?

But they are also filled with possibilities. Every departure holds the promise of discovery, of growth, of becoming. There is something magical about the moment a plane lifts off, a train pulls away, or a car engine hums to life. It’s a reminder that we are always in motion, always moving toward the next chapter.

As I prepare to leave—Paris first, then the quiet hills of the French countryside—I’m holding all of this. The sadness of saying goodbye, the joy of saying hello, and the quiet knowing that what lies ahead is worth the leap.

Here’s to the beauty of departures: the endings that make way for beginnings, the leaving that makes room for arriving, the courage to take the first step. Wherever you are in your journey—whether you’re standing at the edge or already in motion—may you carry what you need and trust the rest to unfold as it will.

Safe travels, dear ones. And remember: every departure is a story waiting to be written.

With love,
—Beth

Beth Hautala 11/22/24 Beth Hautala 11/22/24

Packing.

Packing is a curious act, isn’t it? A mix of practicality and whimsy, decisions and dreams. You stand over an empty suitcase, staring at it like it might whisper the answer to an unasked question. What do you take? What do you leave behind? What will you wish for when you’re too far from home to turn back?

PACKING LIST

If you are going to live
here, for now,
on this green earth
in these bright dark days
you’ll need to bring
memory, firstly.
And a thirst for the curious—the odd.
Also, a bit of resilience and a few brightly wrapped
pieces of joy for the journey—
boredom is treacherous and it helps
if you have something to savor.
Pack a scrap or two of imagination,
if you have them lying about,
and a sound pair of rose-colored-glasses,
which you can choose to wear, or not.
Bring also, sorrow. Great griefs and small,
as they will anchor you to hope,
and nothing, in the end, can kill hope.
Finally, fill your pockets with love.
It’s the perfect seed—
nourishing, nurturing, negating despair,
and when all else fails
it will warm your bones,
on this long walk home.

—Beth Hautala

As I get ready for my trip to France, I’m thinking about both kinds of packing. The first kind is easy enough—good shoes for wandering cobblestone streets, cozy layers for the chilly French countryside, a notebook and my favorite pen. The logical list of essentials.

But then there’s the other kind of packing, the kind that has nothing to do with zippers or airline weight limits. It’s the packing of the heart and soul. And this kind is messier, harder to plan for, but infinitely more important.

If you are going to live
here, for now,
on this green earth
in these bright dark days
you’ll need to bring memory, firstly.

Memory, yes. Memory always goes first into the suitcase of the soul. The stories of who I’ve been, the people I’ve loved, the places that have left their fingerprints on my heart. Memory gives meaning to everything—it’s the thread that ties the past to the present, the familiar to the unknown.

And a thirst for the curious—the odd.

If memory is the thread, curiosity is the needle, stitching together moments that might otherwise go unnoticed. It’s what makes us linger a little longer at the café window or turn down the unexpected side street, chasing something we can’t quite name.

Then there’s resilience and joy. Essential companions, especially when things don’t go as planned (and they won’t—this is travel, after all). Resilience keeps you standing when the train is delayed for hours; joy helps you find something to smile about while you wait.

Pack a scrap or two of imagination,
if you have them lying about…

Imagination is my favorite thing to pack. It’s light as air, takes up no room, and yet it’s capable of expanding entire worlds. With imagination in my suitcase, every street becomes a story, every encounter a spark.

And finally, the heaviest yet most vital items:

Bring also, sorrow. Great griefs and small,
as they will anchor you to hope,
and nothing, in the end, can kill hope.

Grief always sneaks its way in, doesn’t it? It doesn’t ask permission. But maybe that’s okay. Because grief, when held gently, has a way of pointing us back toward hope. And love—oh, love.

Finally, fill your pockets with love.
It’s the perfect seed—
nourishing, nurturing, negating despair.

Love is the thing that keeps the journey alive. It’s the fuel for the long walks, the unexpected detours, the moments when everything feels too much and not enough. Love is the anchor, the compass, the warmth on a cold day.

So here I am, packing my suitcase—both the physical one and the invisible one. One will hold sweaters and notebooks. The other will hold memory, curiosity, joy, resilience, imagination, sorrow, and love. Together, they’ll carry me through Paris, the French countryside, and whatever comes next. Here’s to the unknown. Here’s to the bright, dark days ahead.
Here’s to the long walk home.

—Beth

Beth Hautala 5/28/19 Beth Hautala 5/28/19

Welcome.

Hello Loves, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m thrilled to welcome you to This Storied Heart, a space born from a deep desire to document, explore, and share stories that shape us.

Hello Loves, I’m so glad you’re here.

I’m thrilled to welcome you to This Storied Heart, a space born from a deep desire to document, explore, and share stories that shape us. Whether through writing, poetry, or the ever-evolving practice of creative living, this is where I plan to do the intentional work of gathering it all—an archive of sorts, for the moments and musings that make up the tapestry of my life and work.

And what a moment to begin!

My creative plate is overflowing in the most beautiful way. I’m in the midst of working on several projects, each one dear to me for different reasons. I have a memori taking shape as I dive deep into themes of transformation, self-discovery, and resilience. My poetry collection is blooming with verses that feel like breadcrumbs leading me through the wilderness. And as always, I’m crafting stories that reflect my journey and the places I’ve been, both physically and emotionally.

But perhaps the most exciting chapter is just around the corner. In early December, I’ll be heading to France!

This trip is so much more than an adventure—it’s an opportunity to immerse myself in creative work in a way I’ve never done before. I’ll spend time in Paris, soaking up its history and light, before settling into the French countryside at @chateau_orquevaux for an international artist and writer residency.

At the château, I’ll work on my poetry collection and dive headfirst into creative collaboration with artists, writers, and musicians from all over the world. I’ll dedicate time to intentional focus, stretching my creative muscles, and rediscovering the kind of work that fills my soul.

This blog will be my canvas for sharing it all—the process, the challenges, the lessons learned, and the stories I uncover along the way. I’ll also be documenting my time in France on Instagram, through posts, stories, reels, and even AMAs (Ask Me Anything) where you can ask me about the residency, my projects, or anything you’re curious about. In an age where some might wonder if blogging still matters, I’d argue that creating a space for storytelling and reflection is as relevant as ever. Isn’t there something timeless about pausing to document, connect, and share?

And so, This Storied Heart will be a home for creativity, storytelling, and reflection. It will hold the poetry I write, linked to my poetry page (which exists under my pseudonym authorship, @ajlutherpoet), the lessons I learn, and the adventures I chase. My hope is that it becomes a place where you feel inspired to pursue your own creative passions, to lean into the art of storytelling, and to explore what makes your heart breathe deeply and widely.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for joining me on this journey. It’s an honor to share this space with you, and I can’t wait to see how this chapter unfolds.

Here’s to new stories, bold adventures, and the work of creating a life we love.

With love and gratitude,

—Beth

Beth Hautala 5/28/19 Beth Hautala 5/28/19

To France.

I’ve been keeping a little secret, and now it’s finally time to share.

Back in the fall of 2022, on a hopeful whim and with rather a lot of courage, I applied for an international artist and writer residency in France. Honestly, I never thought I’d hear back. But much to my shock—and absolute delight—I was accepted!

In just a few days, on December 1st, I’ll be boarding a plane to France, stepping into what feels like a dream. First stop: Paris. A city of light and stories and magic that I’ve always longed to see. After a few days soaking it all in, I’ll head to the French countryside to spend the month at @chateau_orquevaux, working alongside artists, writers, and musicians from around the world.

While I’m there, I’ll be dedicating myself to several writing projects, including a memoir/poetry collection that’s been quietly waiting for its moment to take shape. I’ll spend my days creating, learning from other creatives, and returning to the kind of intentional, heart-centered work that feels like home.

To call this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m deeply grateful, a little overwhelmed, and honestly, still pinching myself that this is real. To be able to spend time doing what I love, in a place that feels like a storybook, is such a wild and beautiful gift.

For those of you who’ve been following my creative journey, I’d love for you to come along with me, even from afar. I’ll keep sharing poems here, of course, but I’ll also be posting about my time at the residency over on Instagram—adventures, creative breakthroughs, lessons learned, and maybe even a peek at what’s inspiring me along the way. There will be AMAs, reels, and plenty of chances to connect. I hope it might encourage anyone out there chasing a bold dream of their own.

Thank you for being here. For reading, for showing up, and for allowing me to share this journey with you. Your support means the world. In a noisy, busy, often-heartbreaking world, the fact that you take time for my words is a gift I never take for granted.

Here’s to stepping into the unknown, chasing the things that make us feel alive, and embracing the stories waiting to be written.

Carry on, dear ones. You are so deeply loved.

With gratitude,
—Beth