Writing is a difficult path. It is a purging. It requires one to bare open their soul. It requires the sometimes cold, dark solitude of isolation before the words come through. In that sense, it is much like committing to the daily practice of meditation or a movement practice.
When I meditate, each day I know I will go into the solitute, the space where I will connect with my soul. I also know that within that silent space is where I may find tears waiting for me or be forced to sit with that which is deeply painful. This is the path.
So, in meditation or with writing, I may avoid it. I may go to great lengths to choose anything that requires less pain and less laying open of my soul. Yet if I do not perform this simple daily act, the practice of showing up and allowing my soul to flow through the pen, shall I ever then call myself a writer? I shall never find myself worthy of the ink on my skin. It will be more like a prisoner’s number, marking a painful reminder of all that might have been had I allowed myself to fully embody that which I came here to be.
I once wrote the words, “I had to live this lifetime of experiences, so that one day you could read my words.” “Certain poems can only come from a torn soul.“ Who would I be if I deprived you of my words…my words of healing, my words that might offer a light, or perhaps even gentle encouragement on your own journey home?
I can at least offer you that.
So each day I will write. I will open my heart, my soul, and share the handful of breadcrumbs I am here to offer. Let my wounds not go in vain. Let them offer you hope and encouragement and healing on your way.
