The first poem I ever wrote is documented in a journal with a cover depicting a young girl combing her long red hair. The poem is about flowers, and it was the beginning of a realization that I could communicate what it was that was in my mind and in my heart on paper for others to see, although for the most part that journal was for my eyes only.
I lived a lot of my young life in books, immersed in stories and adventures of others, and learning how to relate to my own world through characters. I kept journals, wrote poetry and stories. I would often feel shy speaking, and writing was a way to feel free in a way that I hadn’t felt before.
Sometimes, when I go back to read my journals I’m astounded at the wiseness of my younger counterpart, writing about things that, at the time, felt like I knew nothing about. An ode to my contemplative child-like heart. My writing brings awareness to patterns in my behaviors, in my way of thought, ultimately helping me to shape my mindsets. I notice that certain scenarios and personal actions repeat themselves, something I wouldn't be aware of if I hadn't written down my truths. I am astounded at the hurts I have felt, and I know that some of my journal entries would be better off burned, reduced to ash, and perhaps spread into the earth where it would nourish something to grow rather than sit bitterly and painfully in pages tucked in my basement. On the flip side, when I read about my joys, exuberance and lessons learned I thank myself for documenting the stories.
I have always wondered if I should share my writing, and I always met myself with uncertainty and, let’s face it, fear. When I create something there is equal feeling of wanting to share it with the world, while at the same time wanting to hold it close, to protect it from ever being seen, because it is a part of me and it is vulnerable and it feels scary to share. But what would the world be without people sharing their creative force? It is what holds this world together, the part of us that is spawned from the deepest part of our heart that has been calling to us from the moment we came to this world, just begging to be released. It is everything. I think of my friends in books, the poets that have nourished me on the deepest level, artists of all kinds that share their truest self and in turn have encouraged me to get in touch with the part of me that is begging to do the same. It is necessary to share our creative force, as that is what keeps us alive and moving forward. We have to practice this, just like we practice living with joy, with creativity, spontaneity, and love. Its not easy, and that is why we practice. I am thankful for this life, for this opportunity to practice. Practice for what? That I'm not sure of...
I told myself I would publish this website on March 1, 2018, an arbitrary date and time, but one to hold me accountable. Last year, in 2017, my new year’s resolution was to write a poem a day, knowing that I would not end up with 365 poems but resolving nevertheless. I think I wrote about 45, which I was pleased about as its more than zero. Upon reflection a year later, heading into 2018, I pondered how I would share these writings, and was met with tightness in my chest-- the fear-- the part of me telling me it wouldn’t be worth it to share my ideas. I meditated and relaxed into the idea, and I set the intention to share some of me with the world.
A few weeks later, my burnt orange molskin, with my 45 poems, with my doodles, and my journal entries, went missing. It is out there, somewhere in the world, and I laugh at the way the universe took my request literally. I hope that someone has it, and is reading it, and relates to it, and maybe writes some of their own true heart desires and experiences down, and know that the words on the page came from the depths of someone's true heart.