Last night I fully realized that I haven’t honoured the most essential pieces of who I am in the way that they deserve. I don’t think this makes me different from any other human being. We all have our insecurities and fears. And we all have to find a way to cope with the lies that have taken root in our heads and our hearts from the moment of life that first introduced us to self-doubt. We've all been there. Many of us still exist in that place.
I have this memory from my childhood. I’m in front of a huge bonfire, my bare feet are scattering sand as I twirl, the magical vibration of fingers strumming guitar strings reverberating in my mind, my body reacting in abandon with each chord as the music lifts my soul into a state of total freedom. The memory is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. I can see the sparks jumping from the logs, hear the surf in the background, and feel the dizzying heat of the flames… But most importantly, I have absolutely no recollection of how anyone saw that performance…except myself. It may be the last moment of my existence when I didn’t factor in the judgment of others. My last moment of total belief in myself.
Despite that amazing moment of complete oneness with the universe, I didn’t hold onto the connection. I somehow started listening to people who knew all the reasons why I shouldn’t take any risks – and I applied their strategy of self-protection to the important areas of my life: friendship, school, work, love, and…my heart’s desire. Writing. It was like a brick wall going up around me.
I didn’t pursue the writing career I have always wanted. I found out (from others) that only a tiny percentage of writers are published. Those odds didn't seem to be in my favour. So I shared my work (with others) who explained why my writing ‘didn’t fit the market’ or ‘wasn’t what most people are looking for’. And then I didn’t think I had the talent. I knew (from others) that there is no money in writing, and that it couldn’t possibly work as a full-time career. That just depressed me, so I didn’t stick to the habit of writing daily, because I really just didn’t think I had it in me to persevere when there was obviously no future in it for me...
And yet, since I turned fifty, the ghost of my oldest dream has been flirting at the edges of my consciousness. Taunting me. Making sure that I occasionally write blog posts. Reviving my appetite for cleansing my heart with a written word purge. Since starting this blog, many people have encouraged me to write, but my self-doubt has been like a fog making possibilities and opportunities seem shapeless, vague…hopeless. What if I’m not talented enough? Or disciplined enough? Or if my writing doesn’t sell? Isn’t it better to keep doing things the way I know is safe? The way I know won’t make me socially unacceptable…a failure? If I throw myself into writing – heart and soul – I could be broken. I could fail.
Suddenly, last night, in a conversation with someone I hadn’t seen for years and years, it hit me. I haven’t been believing in myself. And there’s no reason for this to remain a truth in my life.
Then, during my meditation time this morning, I remembered this line from somewhere:
"If you carry the bricks of your past with you, you will build the same house."
I suddenly realized that I don’t want the same house. So what if I try and fail? It’s still the best possible thing I could do. If I fail, I learn. If I learn, I change. If I change, I’m growing. If I grow, I’m better. Not for others. For me.
I know now that the only way to get past this insecurity is to move through it. To push past my discomfort. To put myself – and my writing – out there and to be okay with not knowing for sure what others will think. To stick with writing daily, ignoring any negative self-talk. And when I accidentally allow my disparaging inner voice to breach the walls of my self-confidence, to find the courage to trust myself and keep going.
After all, call it what you will (it’s God to me), there’s another voice in my head today telling me that it’s okay, even productive, to fail. That I’m learning. And growing. That I’m stronger than I think. And that I’m more talented than I believe.
Can you dig it? I’m finding myself. Or actually, I’m finding that I was never lost in the first place.
I just wasn’t looking at the view from the new room of my brick house.
And now I am.