I have about 15 minutes before I need to leave my house. I have sat down here because I am going to write. I am going to piggy back on Elizabeth Gilbert’s voice and authority (and probably content) because I have devoured more than half of her book, Big Magic, just TODAY. I am aching to write and terrified of it. I have been in no woman’s land where there is no grace and I almost wish punishment would come already because I have just been waiting here in torment and anything is better.
My inner critic is so strong that I can hardly choose what to eat for dinner, much less where to live or WHAT THE HELL TO WRITE. I feel that my voice has no relevancy, no value, no authority.
So I am writing to prove that untrue. Of course, it already is untrue, but that which is within me (my muchness, no doubt) is crying out to me: walk it out. It is not true until it is lived.
It is not true until it is lived.
How can I believe in grace if I have not worn it as a cloak, felt its bellowing embrace folding around me?
How can I speak of Love (I have not even had the courage to do that for months) if I do not wake up in the morning and speak the revelatory Divine Words of Love over me?
How can I find authority if I do not give myself permission to speak as one with authority?
Why can I not write like I do everything else: because it makes me better. I play basketball and soccer weekly because they make me better. I play alone usually and that is not a common sight where I live (23 year old white female playing basketball or soccer–that is definitely a team sport, arguably the most team sport….). Before my ankle injury I rode my bike through the forest because it made me better. I meditate to be better. I read to be better. I pray to be better.
Yet when I write, I get caught up on why I am doing it. I do not like any of the reasons my brain comes up with (Truth is also something I have to try on and sometimes, often, actually, it inexplicably does.not.fit) so I do not write. What a fucking absurd barrier between me and doing something that all the muchness within me is yearning for.
When I do not let my mind write it crawls over the input that comes at me from external sources. Instead of creating my mind becomes a parasite seeking to draw sustenance out of objects, conversations, foreign ideas, as if it is sucking marrow out of a bone. This mind was made for gymnastics. On the bench, it does not know what to do. I was made to cultivate my OWN ideas. I was made to produce the marrow of my life organically, to coax myself into fullness by coaxing the fullness out of the Magic all around me.
There it was. 15 glorious minutes that were not boring. What else might there be within me?