“I woke up, so today was a good day.”
Can’t remember for the life of me why I began to whisper this to myself several years ago but it was likely the result of my TIA (mini-stroke) at age thirty-four. Lying in bed, fully numb head-to-toe for three days, taught me that life was short, and that the world was going to keep spinning regardless of my personal drama. I had always been a glass-half-empty person up until that point but, over the years, I was able to shift my perspective to see it as half-full, instead.
And now, on my best days?
Water spills over the glasses’ rim like a waterfall, infinite possibilities as far as the eye can see.
This year, much like fifteen years ago, has been a time of transition, one that’s reminded me of both my strengths and blessings, insecurities and shortcomings. The Universe has never failed to remind me that the act of writing on a regular basis is essential to my sanity and overall well-being. I become emotionally and physically ill when I don’t write for a significant stretch; my nerves become frayed and I’m tortured by a voice in my head that asks the most random questions imaginable:
“What if the old man using a cane to cross the street is a former superhero who developed arthritis but can’t get treatment because he lost his workers comp claim and now is learning SQL so he can begin a new career complete with insurance coverage from some company that would pay for his hip replacement?”
Yes people, this is how my mind works. All day, every day. And the obvious answer to this epic question?
I won’t know what happens until I sit in front of a blank page to figure it out for myself.
I write to satisfy my curiosity and you had best believe that The Muses have never let me down when, and this is crucial, I consistently put in work. All adults endure suffering while climbing whichever ladder bests suits their respective paths, be they safer careers (like accounting and human resources) or high-risk, high-reward pursuits that speak to our passions.
Let’s return, for a moment, to the idea of playing it safe, an illogical career / life plan that flies in the face of personal growth and lasting happiness. I can speak to this subject like a true professional since I’m not yet 50 but have 27 years of accounting experience. ‘Nuff said, right?
My version of playing it safe was based upon a fear of not having enough (grew up poor, didn’t have a lot of clothing nor food until I was grown). The scared voice in my head longs for harmony and stability as opposed to the passionate voice that will forever point me in the direction of the scariest, most satisfying thrill ride possible (like handstands, or when I went onstage and rocked the hottest open mic poetry night in LA a month ago). I can’t explore the (l)edge and play it safe in the same moment so, no matter what’s going on in my life, I need to (re)develop the singular focus possessed last year during the editing of my first novel so that I’m too busy to be timid! We all lose our way at times and I’ve been as distracted and guilty of that as anyone (details to come in a later post).
But I’m a storyteller first and foremost, and my soul isn’t satisfied unless I’m grinding, getting reps in, because the secret of writing is that there’s no such thing as writing! Any writer worth her salt will tell you that it’s all about the rewriting. All first drafts are nothing but a chunk of charcoal waiting for its creator to apply enough pressure to transform it into a girl’s best friend.
A new friend sent the following meme as I was working on this post and it felt as if the universe was whispering gently, non-judgmentally in my ear:
“Time to get back to work.”
I’ve been building momentum these past few weeks, nervous about what the future holds while attempting to live mindfully in the same breath because I haven’t the foggiest how any of this will turn out.
This, of course, means I’ll have to sit in front of more blank pages and figure it out. 😉
Be blessed until next time…
Namaste
Sean Thompson 