Recently, the pages of my journal…
are filled with non-sensical sentences, one word here, another there. I’m discovering I don’t have much experience writing from a place of gratitude, a place of ease, a place of being. My impulse to pick up my pen and write comes when there is gunk to sift through, plans to be hatched, and things to fix. Part of me is nervous to write from a place of joy, a place of light.
It’s so open. So feminine. So soft. But that’s the landing place I’ve craved. The one I’m called to. Years ago my subconscious would stop words from hitting the page out of fear all they contained would be ripped out from underneath me. If I just kept my lightness safely in the confines of my sock drawer, I could ration it before it was found. Maybe that’s the beauty in life going awry–the rug ripped out from underneath you despite your rationing. You realize it’s a fruitless attempt at safety.
Today my fear is different.
I can’t yet describe it neatly, but it involves others more than myself. I think I’m nervous. Nervous that by writing about the mundane beauty, the magical idiosyncrasies, and the underlying belief that the universe will always provide I will be out of touch. That my words will fail me. That my vocabulary is more suited and better used for pain.
Because as much as I write for myself, my words have always been for someone else. I’ve never quite untangled the two. It might not be whole paragraphs, but some element even if it’s just a word or two always makes it beyond me.
If I don’t write about the struggle what is my muse?
Today at least, I’ll let it be the golden October sun streaming through more of the old oak with each passing day.
It will be the warmth of new friendships and deepening connection with those already existing.
It’s the calluses on my feet left behind from long walks by the ocean.
It’s my gratitude for my newfound ability to accept the sadness and fear, but not be consumed.
It’s the grains of sand I find in pockets, sheets, and shoes.
It’s my ability to see, hear, touch, taste, and smell
But mostly, it’s my ability to feel.
To feel all the magnificent, heartwrenching, glorious shades of being in this human skin for a brief time.
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Maggie, "Nervous that by writing about the mundane beauty, the magical idiosyncrasies, and the underlying belief that the universe will always provide I will be out of touch" Maggie, I know. Yet, this is the message we are meant to share. I believe that. You are doing great. D
Thanks Maggie. I so relate. Often I find it is through the pain that the writing comes and then it evolves into something quite different as I pour my soul onto the paper in it's rawness. It becomes something uplifting and inspiring even. Alchemy. The muse is that connection to what is real within.