I can’t recall the day I stopped writing. It is oxygen for my soul so the decision not to inhale for a little while wasn’t a conscious one. Like many passions, it was pushed aside slowly, ever so slowly, into non-existence. Little gasps of air injected a surge of vitality into my being as I occasionally scribbled something on post it note or on one of many scraps of paper. These odds and ends have collected themselves into a large, ziploc bag – it’s quite embarrassing actually. These poor half-dead creations in a bag, just waiting to be picked up and nurtured
If I close my eyes, still my mind, and attempt to summon the reason why I lost my voice, I hear an echo vibrating into the present moment. The truth is, I had to find out who I was first. Every bit I wrote down felt farcical. I loathe hypocrisy and the idea of becoming a hypocrite myself, well, I’d rather not write, not breathe, than become a walking untruth. I wrote about slowing down, finding joy in little things, beauty in the world, being free and an all-loving person. While I did attempt all those things, I didn’t live those things. In fact, I was drowning. In real life, I had been caught up by many things, images and notions that were not me. I felt it acutely. Like walking around in trendy shoes that pinched and an itchy sweater only worn because it was gift, I was burdened by the image of who I thought I was supposed to be, who I thought others thought I was supposed to be. I was afraid to be real, to state my opinion, to differ from these expectations. This fear directly conflicted with my innate curiosity that always pushed me to express myself, to be creative, to discover the world uniquely and on my own terms. So, what did I do?
I continued to blindly stumble along, of course. Sometimes humans can be really, really obtuse. I mean, how many hints does a person need? (No, really, universe. Just one more lightening bolt and then I’ll change my life.) Well, those lightening bolts often manifest themselves as health complications. So my process of healing began. (Which I will elaborate upon in the future.) The short and sweet of it is, I began a process of healing.
And in healing my body discovered that I also have to heal my mind.
And in healing my mind am discovering that I also had to heal my spirit.
So, I’ve been learning and practicing this healing by reading a lot, thinking a lot, and talking a lot with my trusted few. I’ve had to slay a few demons and am still discovering inhibiting expectations to toss into the wind. Most of all, I am learning to give myself freedom, love, and encouragement just to be me.
And who is that person? Who am I to say? I hope to never have a concrete answer, to always be seeking, wandering, and writing.
It feels good to breath again.