Pulled towards writing, an inner urge, an itch, wanting to put fingers to keyboard, tip-tapping away, something, anything. Currently car-sitting, my write-on-the-bus-in-the-mornings-habit falls to the wayside, and isn’t replaced by anything. Instead of giving myself the extra hour and a half I gain from not having to go by public transport, I give it to work, getting there earlier, staying longer before driving home.
It’s been a long time since I got into writing mode at night, sitting on the sofa, music in the background, Pop purring beside me. It used to happen often back in the days when I was committed to daily blogging, and many were the nights when I cursed myself for not just letting myself off the hook, skipping a day without issue. But nah, not me.
Today, or, honestly, this last… year? Or what feels like forever… I miss the biggest perk of daily blogging; sitting down to write. Struggling with my longing to write, but wanting to do it because I want to do it, not because I feel a need to do it, notbecause I have committed to writing daily regardless of time, energy, inspiration, my write-on-the-bus-habit has been the only thing that’s given me any writing-consistency in the past sixteen months or so.
Conflicted, inner voices viciously putting me down, for not prioritizing writing, prioritizing myself, not taking the time, not making the effort, to simply start to write. Other voices whisper softly that it’s ok. That I don’t have to, that there’s good reasons for why I just don’t have the energy to do it, instead plonking down in the very same sofa that has me writing today, binging on Netflix-shows and chocolate bars.
Truth is, yeah, both of those voices speak truth, in the sense that I my priorities have been on other things. But what remains underneath that truth, is the other truth. The truth (Truth?) that I need to write, I love to write, I learn, live, love, grow when writing.
So what do I need to heed my wish and longing to write? How do I honor myself? What is the key to stop using my energy, all of my energy, on work, leaving me bereft and floundering with a longing unmatched by action?
And. Or.
Is this the wrong question? Is the fact that I am struggling part of the issue for me? That I am not simply rolling with it, being with what is, cherishing moments of writing, without reverting to judgmental metrics.
(Too seldom. Too short. Not consistent enough. It’s been days, weeks, months since you last sat down to write.)
Skeleton Woman.
She emerged in my last therapy session, and… she’s related to this. Somehow. The Life/Death/Life-cycle of me, of writing, of energy.
“Without death there are no lessons, without death there is no dark for the diamond to shine from.”
~ WWRWW, Clarissa Pinkola Estés, pg 141 of Chapter 5 Hunting: When the Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
What if… I stop struggling, and roll with what is? What if, I let die the beliefs that I need to write to be good, to be productive, efficient, appreciated and loved? What if, there’s nothing to prove? No need to be anything other than grateful for what I write, when I write? No shoulds. No musts.
What if I stop running from her? Open my arms and cuddle up next to her, Skeleton Woman? Let go, to let come? Let die, to let live?