I was surprised at how at ease I felt writing and even how peaceful I was inside, how comfortable I wrote my thoughts as they drifted by, as I looked upon this day, as I just seemed to write effortlessly.
Six years later the me that is doing The Artist’s Way is completely different inside than the last time…I have a hard time recollecting the old me.
She was a compilation of her parents, built upon their patterns and beliefs, structured to fulfill their needs, a woman with very little sense of self.
Now my insides are bursting with me, my knowing and fully comprehending who I am, where I came from, how I made the choices I made etc. A woman with her History pretty much figured out, but a woman with an open slate and a big world to explore.
The other thing missing inside is the fear of changing, the dread of trying something new and even appearing silly or a beginner…all my sense of pride is gone, with nothing left to lose, I can only gain.
It is astonishing to me how different I am, the years slipped by and tiny layers of confidence grew on me, so that I am in a much better spot to now add accessories to the new me.
Just as a woman adds to her outfit, I will add to the strong core of who I am, colorful and exciting things, my bling.
I have never been a person to wear wild clothes or trends, to dress with flair and be fancy, but I can feel that I am standing here, in need of a bit of that.
Perhaps The Artist’s Way will change my outward appearance to match my insides…or at least begin the reconstruction on the outside.
The journal cover I made for myself yesterday!
Tag: journal
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Reconstruction on the Outside.
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I write so I can listen.
In the Little White church on Finlandia’s campus a poet spoke, his words didn’t rhyme but instead they took us on mini tours into the complex moments on his personal journey. (Randy Freisinger)
He described his style as narrative and was introduced as an accessible poet, and it didn’t seem it required nothing of us.
All we had to do was sit back and listen to his tales of youthful freedoms turning naiveté into knowing or be an eavesdropper watching life speed out of control, to the silent wisdom of aging it’s secret never told, into viewing prejudice from where we were grown.
These wonderful narratives were well written and easy to follow and I guess accessible, but what he didn’t tell us is that we would either feel an affinity with his desire to know or the screaming fear of not wanting to go where he’s been.
It is one thing to be a silent observer into another’s life, but do you have the courage to openly and loudly explore your own?
Can you tell a narrative of your life, the troubled spots and not just give us details of the sunny days?
Will you give to me the places that brought you to your knees and then how you managed to stand back up?
How deep does your narrative go?
How much of yourself do you know?
I felt affirmed as I listened to him.
I understood that writing doesn’t rhyme in my narrative either, it has its own unique style and it’s own individual way of speaking to me. I write and I listen, I ask and am told.
I have an intimate relationship with writing and I believe that it trusts me as well, that I will write what needs to be written and I will tell my tale no matter how uncomfortable or scared I am, I will put words to paper and my truths will be known.
Writing has been my most honest friend; it has given me the courage to face what I didn’t want to face, to speak the unspeakable and to know more than I needed to know.
It is the oddest thing; it brings me where I don’t want to go yet I am eager to arrive. It tells me things I don’t want to hear yet I am an eager listener.
I left that little church once again knowing that I am a writer, that I have a narrative to tell.
I write so I can listen.
I M Perfect lady 