It takes me a while to reckon out my own crapola. As much as I preach about the importance of depth – depth of feeling, humanity, connectedness – I realized I’ve been avoiding the truth. Until yesterday when a glimmering a-ha arrived, bringing in a big filet o’ fish of clarity. It was the best catch ever for this wayward and impatient human.
I love the discoveries during my ‘head escapes’, which is how I refer to my wee bit of meditation time. (Under duress, I’ll refer to the purposeful interludes as ‘meditative moments’ but can I confess something? I hate those two words. They convey, at least to me, an outcome I’ve yet to experience – a sought after and revolutionary thunderbolt where I transcend and pick up threads of universal knowledge.)
I know this sounds like I’m lacking grace and gratitude – with a side order of attitude – but my malaise is borne out of my love/hate relationship with…sigh…let’s call it my ‘reflective practice’ because it’s perpetually about me. Can I pick another category, please? 😉 No need to answer. I get it. It’s supposed to be about me, from the inside out.
Revelations are messy and some days, I’d like to go a-pondering in someone else’s backyard. Whether I’m too much of a novice or just an avoider, my ego really doesn’t want or need so much “Vicki, Vicki, Vicki”. (I want to insert another winky face here, but I don’t want to overdo it with the emojis…but if you will, just imagine one here, okay? Thank you!)
Whether we call it meditation, reflection, or heart work, we don’t get to drive to the destination. That’s the point. I can begin with intention, sure, but I can’t navigate and steer whilst opening myself up to insight. (Yes. I see the command-and-control issues. You’re not the first to make the observation but thank you for joining the chorus.)
Despite my occasional misgivings, I meditate anyhow…and received a reward, of sorts, yesterday. Cosmic encouragement to keep on, keeping on – in the form of a ‘big fish’ of insight.
My intention yesterday? I had creative compulsion on my mind again. This time, more specifically my need to write –especially on days when I should be in client-mode, following up on business and/or editing other projects. Am I being an avoider of ‘other things’ or does the daily ritual of writing belong in the cadence of every day?
I don’t want to feel the heaviness of procrastination stress; there’s a special sort of joy that comes from translating thoughts and feelings into text, even if the text in question is LOUSY. Do it anyhow, but I wondered…am I just justifying and rationalizing (which I’m quite good at)?
Just when this doubting Vicki needed a boost, clarity came! In the form of a long-forgotten T.S. Eliot quote, flying in during yesterday’s ‘meditative moments’:
“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”
Don’t worry. I’m not lauding myself for creating LIT- TRA-TURE. Far from it, I’m just plunking down my insides – experiences, impressions, feelings, rants – into reading fodder. I’m not creating anything especially worthy, but it is my blood, as Eliot says – my life, coming together in storytelling and sharing. The writing IS me.
As much as I adore artists of all sorts, my reflective time also highlighted a hiccup. I’m dealing with hurdles related to worthiness and envy. Without awareness, I believe I’ve been jealous of the painters and potters and knitters and architects who create beautiful, dimensional art. For years. The same is true for musicians – those who provide listeners with evocative opportunities for soul work. Holding others in high regard for their ‘art’ scrambled my motivational longings, setting me up for a soulful showdown about creations and legacies during my ‘quiet time’…my pondering place. And then this…
I remembered…long ago, our dear daughter (DD) asked me to write about my mom, her “Nanny” and family history that’s been equal parts humorous and horrifying. Hearing snippets in small doses, DD was intrigued and perhaps that’s all the motivation I needed. Tell the stories. Share the feelings.
I’m not a morbid person, but if I can leave a trail, for DD and any who follow, the chain will be less broken – those fascinating nuts and berries from the family tree? They need to be seen, and as much as possible, understood. Blood into ink.
The truth, then. Why do I write? Because I love my family, my friends and you, dear reader, and I’m a word person. Not an artist, not a musician. And that’s okay. I write because I want to instill hope and leave a legacy of love. That’s the truth I tripped over yesterday. My ‘big fish’.