I've made a big decision.
What, bigger than the recent one that has shaken your life upside down?! you ask.
No, not bigger, but big.
I was going through my stuff. Doesn't the Dark Moon have amazing letting go energy? The letting go also included a Day of Tears on Saturday, which was very cleansing thankyouforasking
Anyway, what I went through I went through meticulously.
Did it add to my life?
Will I care if I never see it again?
Does this deserve a place in my I Must Own These Things Pile of life?
Anyway, as you do, I ended up looking through some old diaries/journals. In one, I mention how I gave up my dream to write. I knew back then that I didn't have the eloquence of some, but I used that as an excuse to mask the real reason - that I gave it up to accommodate my new married life and what was expected of me. I did myself a great disservice.
In my previous life, I had been travelling around Australia and writing on an old-fashioned typewriter. I wrote while a bunch of us, friends and strangers alike, sat in a circle sharing a piece of ourselves under a haze of smoke and dusty stars. Talking, sharing dreams, ideas, weirdness, laughter, deep thought. There I sat with my typewriter, sometimes joining in discussion, sometimes sinking my head low and typing, typing, typing.
Or I wrote on the back of napkins, or in beach sand, on my friends' arms, or on a small notepad during a stop for petrol (gas). It wasn't just writing, it was the freedom, the letting go of pieces I thought good.
Basically, I wrote. Poems, snippets, thoughts, starting lines, characters.... I had the germ of an idea of becoming a novelist, but I wrote because words simply spilt out.
And then life became traditional, fixed, bounderies were set, obligations formed, emotions in turmoil.
I stopped writing.
I think that studying, on some level, was a way to feed my need to write. All those essays... But it also aided in killing my creativity. It required exactness, pedantry, forcing my ideas into prescribed nooks. Not that there isn't any creativity in this type of writing, but I am of course talking about something wilder.
photo: Daniela Duncan
Years later, healing my Arrogance Shadow helped me to see that it would be unlikely for me to be a successful writer. Honestly, this is a good thing. Because that Shadow insists on perfection and perfection is a burden and an obstacle.
It does mean that today I can say this...
I'm going to write again.
It doesn't matter if it's any good, or if it will ever be published. I will write because it brings me joy.
I'm going to tap into that muse. I feel her waking. I'm going to have a notebook by my side, like the old days, and jot it all down. I'm not going to concern myself with whether I have enough time being a mother and all. Time is subjective.
I'm going to possibly work on something meatier, a novel. And just see where it goes.
It doesn't matter what I write. It isn't the result, it's the journey. Not the one we convince ourselves we are supposed to be happy with. But the journey of what brings us into our authentic selves.
I believe that we all deserve to take that ride.
Also blogging at Crooked Hooks & chewing on a leaf