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I intend to write what I know, even when and if what I know temporarily blinds me. I notice I am afraid of forgetting the things that are most inherently true, while also forgetting that even if I do, I cannot escape them, no matter if I try. To forget my intrinsic curiosity, passion and eternal nature is to somehow, along the way – remember my curiosity, passion and eternal nature. I am going to write and see where it takes me, hopefully there is something curious or wonderful that I find along the way.
My writing practice has taken a backseat the first couple of weeks of January, which is largely frustrating, because one of my goals for this year and for the entirety of my lifetime is to actively practice my writing muscle. To me, that looks like making the time to write every day, no matter what.
I haven’t been. Why? I don’t know, I bet I could come up with a few excuses. Perhaps why is not the right question to ask. As I get curious about this, I notice why it is in actuality that I don’t want to put words to the page. It’s because writing is where I arrive to the thick of it. The middle. And at the same time, sometimes that means I arrive on the other side, or —
I become stuck somewhere in the thick of it and I have to wade through my own uncomfortable dialogue. And now I am probably backed up, because it’s been many days since I’ve showed up here, to the google document. I fear I have nothing interesting or profound to say. When maybe, perhaps, I simply do not have what it requires to say anything pretty when I haven’t been saying much of anything at all.
To find myself struggling to articulate or express my experience in full sentences feels like a threat to the truest part of me as a writer. And still, I must write.
It’s been mostly an inward experience that I have been having again and again, one that urges me to stay inside. Similarly to the cold winter air. It’s 0 degrees today from where I write…and even though I like the idea of spending the day outside in theory, it’s much harder in practice. Similarly to my devotion to the one and only thing I know to be true, I am a writer. And I am a writer, even when I am not writing. This is how I see the world.
When I think about why it may be that I am reluctant to be here right now it may be because I am not on the other side of difficult or uncomfortable feelings with a higher perspective. I am, instead, right in the middle of it. I often feel like if I am going to write, I should have something to offer to the reader. This stops me from getting to the page at times.
The truth is, lately, I feel closer to not knowing anything than to knowing anything. Because of this, I hesitate to preach or tell. The poet Joy Sullivan writes, “A poet's true job is not to offer advice, but rather to aptly name the ache.” I find solace in this reminder. I notice that within my desire to find a profound way to express myself or hold my current circumstance is an attempt to be something I am currently not. I am not above or higher than the humanly calls to be with my experience. I am in the throes of what confuses and contorts my lens of clarity. I know this.
Sometimes, showing up to the page feels disingenuous within this momentary truth, but only because I want to help some hurt part of someone somewhere, and if I am in a place where I doubt that I have that to give, I simply won’t write. And here, I am given the space to remember my why. I don’t write simply to balm the ache in another. Sure, the connection that I find through what I write and how it grazes upon something real within the collective is part of why I love what I do. I want to be in service to some greater being that presents itself to us in the pain and the glory.
To hold another with my words, to show them they are not alone. That I’ve felt it too.
But I write to better understand myself, my existence and my relationship to it. Sometimes that won’t be wise or relatable or life changing, and still, I am worthy of showing up to the page. And if not for the benefit of anyone else, then for myself. To my small self, medium self, scared and reluctant self and also most brave and loving self.
It’s hard to tell the truth when some small part of myself resists it because it would greatly prefer some other version of the truth in the distance, or on the other side of the coin. But that wouldn’t be the truth. That would be a story that I tell myself to temporarily tamper the ache. To make myself feel better until I gather the courage to be vulnerable in the crass longing for and the abrasive emptiness that has the power to take my breath away when I wake. I know by now that the ego mind ruminates when and because it does not want to accept the unsatisfactory conclusion. I am no stranger to the void.
Acceptance is the answer here.
I’ve always known that I want to stand in and share my truth with the world, this is why I write. But sometimes, what my truth looks like, feels undesirable. To me, to an outsider looking in – or so I think. And so I don’t verbalize or share the quiet parts within myself because a part of me wants to censor the kinds of truths that I tell. Reserving only the holy and virtuous for the reader. I know that this is unfair to myself and to those who decide to read my work. As I know I often reach for the words of the artist who is brave enough to show me the backside of their heart story.
A lot of the time, I only want to tell sexy truths. Inspiring truths. Wonderfully weird truths.
Sometimes what I experience in the present moment closely resembles an ugly mangled past tense that I don’t understand or wish to dictate, because to do so would be to have to confront myself in what I am trying not to see or claim as my own — knowing that it is a disheveled mess waiting to be turned right-side up. And until I do, I avoid the place I go to be honest. For fear of saying something absurdly unhopeful or prophetic in the wrong direction. I’ve outlived many prophecies by now. I should know better. Being a writer requires uncanny self awareness, and boy is that a bitchy blessing.
Thanks for being here.
Pau
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I think we all get caught up in only putting our best work out there, when really the stuff you create when you’re in the middle of big emotions can be the most comforting. it’s nice to know other people are just trying to be human too :)