Sometimes there are no words. No ideas, nothing interesting pulling me this way or that. There is nothing in the tank but the practice of creating, the commitment to myself, to try and show up at the blank page on a regular basis. To try to make something, out of nothing. That is the thread of creativity: to make something new out of what you think, feel or have lying about and what’s lying about is mostly the junk in your head and heart. These are all the same practices I use to build a life and so do you.
We show up in our family unit a blank page to them, but fully ourselves to us. They write on us to figure out who we are and how we fit into the family. We take some of those assigned traits on and other traits we rebel against and peel off in chunks over time. We do this same thing in every job we walk into. We know who we are, and present a resume, they see the blank slate of what does this really look like, and they again guess about who we are. We either allow those guesses to stand or show them in our acts and deeds who we really are.
Our every action, what we do, shows those around us who we are, not what we say. In this we are always becoming. We are creating our lives from the inside out, taking our hearts desires, our inspirations and even our fears and putting them out into the world in our actions or inactions.
Every morning is a new blank slate, a new day to be and act that is more in alignment with yourself or not, simple as that. Each act, word, deed moves us further away from ourselves or closer to who we are. Some days that blank slate is daunting because we are overwhelmed, tired, lost and it all feels too much. Those are days to be gentle with ourselves, as tender with our feelings and thin skin as we would be with a wounded bird. There are times we are warriors and push through fear and doubt with trust in ourselves and the universe. Other times we just do it because we are stubborn. That would be me. If I make a promise to others and myself, I work hard at making my word and actions align. Sometimes it is that stubbornness that makes me show up and habit makes me stay.
Sometimes I rest, I take a break and fill my tank with adventures, other times I do it with naps, with reading, with exploring places and ideas. I always come back, I always come back to the blank page, the frustration, the excitement of following one word with another like chasing down a purse snatcher in grimy, trash littered, uneven alleys to take back what is mine. Because it is in this nonsensical way that I string my words, my dreams, my habits, my life together. This creative life is mine to keep or let go, that is my choice. Being stubborn, I will chase that mother fucker down and get my shit back.
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