I sit down to write today, reflective, thinking about why it is that I show up here day after day to write. I think about why it is that I am drawn to put these words together. I think about how wonderful it is to digest words, to find the hidden meaning in a poem, to find ourselves in prose, to read that story that draws up something from within the deep reaches of who we think we are, and our experience of it stirs our Soul, and we ask for more...
And I remember with reverence, the first moments of my earth journey when I first felt the inkling of creation that belonged to me, those first moments sitting down to write my own stories as a young girl. They were often begun, but rarely if ever finished, as if I already knew at a young age that my writing would be born out of experience, and that my experiences would need move through fruition to lovely harvest.
But I remember the grand feeling of being swept away into other worlds, into others' lives, into others' thoughts. I remember the never ending journeys of learning, and discovery, of overcoming fears, of watching shadow turn to light, of finding clarity, and wisdom, and happily ever after.
No one ever told me to write them, and perhaps because they were only fragments of creation, no one ever made a really big deal about them. Perhaps something was protecting me from the critics that would lord over a little one, making sure he dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's, and repeated to him emphatically, that if he wanted to do what he loved, he better be prepared to sacrifice his Soul. And if he were a she, she should plan on sacrificing twice over. Perhaps, something in me knew that this would be for later, for the resurrection--for after I had experienced the death of the artist within.
My child writings were always set in another time, under precarious conditions, with a precocious little girl around my same age, always cute, but not too cute, orphaned and on her own, stranded in her life by having been prematurely abandoned by those who would have best known how to take care of her; perpetually shuffled between households by grand ocean-liners, but meeting sages and other mostly predictable characters along the way that would help her along. There was always a forlorn feeling of homesickness, of not belonging, and a desire to transcend the difficult times to find beauty in unlikely places.
Like most all of us, I had no interest in stories without that rich contrast of good and bad, in which I could cheer for the underdog--but perhaps less noraml, was that I often felt deep compassion for the vilain. I was sure he just needed love.
Ahh, anyway, I see that they were the beginnings of my very own warrior stories.
I realize that these dreamy little tales were the way my Soul and I used to play together, when there were nothing but endless possibilities before me, when there was the desire to experience everything in a big way. This was the beginnings of my Soul taking shape for me in this life experience, and taking its place within me as Essence, while my little girl body and mind caught up to understand its significance as part of me.
These tender moments linger in my memory, as instances of nourishment, and of presence so loving and grounded, as to make its own light, as to highlight each step; a golden thread of light spun from the experience of Grace, fashioned to lead me back home at the moment when my spirit eyes were ready to open, and to look back upon the distance. I would need only feel it in my hand to realize that I was always holding onto it.
When I thought I'd lost all magic, when I stopped believing, I would only have to inch myself along this golden thread to ignite my memory of it. I would feel it taking me with it, as I abandoned the constraints of my earth-bound learning, and surrendered to the ease of letting it lead me.
I show up to here to meet my Soul with these words. I show up here to reconnect with this friend of long ago that has been waiting so patiently for me to awaken to my memory of him. I listen to his truth, that creation has always belonged to me, and now I am ready to believe him.
We play together here, dressing up as whatever we want to be at the moment. This morning, I am an artist. But I know that putting on the clothes is only a ritual, because deep within, I know that it is all that I have ever been. It is all any of us have ever been. You'll see it too, if you want to.
I protect this. I honor this creating that finally belongs in all its splendor to me. I protect it from classrooms, from technical books, from critics and worldly worlders, and from anything that would darken and flatten my experience with it; from anything that would separate me from my Soul.
But I smile. I recognize that there is no need to protect anything, because there is nothing external that could be threatened. It lives outside of this world with sharp edges. The nature of It is alive. It is eternal, and can never be extinguished.
I show up to play. I show up to listen. I show up to trust.
I show up.
My story is your story. Perhaps that is why we are all so drawn to stories. We are all so desperately wanting to see each other. We are desperately wanting to see ourselves, to return home.
What did you like to create when you were a little one? What do you feel like creating today?
Well, go on then!