Silently passing by with an anxious glance.
Like spies on a bridge.
Should we meet? Is it safe? Can we we connect and exchange or do we walk right on by?
I’ve avoided writing for most of my life.
I declared as a child I would “be an author” when I grew up.
Then my dream faded. As dreams often do.
Squashed by the weight of expectation. The weight of perfection. The weight of of fear of getting it wrong.
An early piece of writing at school about autumn leaves crackling underfoot, was mysteriously taken to the head teacher for praise. I was confused. Why? What was so good about it? They were just words. They are given to me.
They don’t come from me.
I stopped writing then.
Until one day in my twenties, deeply connected to my heart I skipped work and went and sat in nature and wrote. Poem after poem poured out. I had no idea I could write poetry.
The words don’t come from me.
That day I closed my book and didn’t write again.
Another ten years passed. This dream laying dormant, deep inside.
If your dreams are the echoes of your soul, mine continued to whisper quietly to me.
It showed up as a longing. Pencil meets paper. A desire.
Until one day those strangers in the night met eye to eye on the bridge. No longer an anxiety. No longer hiding.
It was time to write.
Those who know me know I am already blessed to do work I love. Writing brings with it a peace. A settling. If coaching is my ‘work’ then writing is my love.
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pary, Love has a brilliant talk about ‘your elusive creative genius’.
You can watch it here.
Her words really resonate with me: “Ole´ Ole´ to showing up!”