I believe deeply in having and curating a writing process for yourself.
Let me tell you a quick story.
I woke up this morning, exhausted and miserable.
Dirt, my tiny little dog-dude, decided that he had to poop three different times, in the middle of the night. On top of that, Cleo, my Belgian Tervuren, managed to shake the house down with her 4 am, and 6 am wolf howls. This meant that since I also had insomnia last night, (and the night before, and before, and before, and last Monday.) I slept a total of about 3 hours between 2:30 am and 9:15 am. Not even the pillow, ear plugs and face mask, kept me asleep any longer.
Luckily, I only heard her howls, thought it was a dream, and then woke up terrified, to her monstrous barreling into the bathroom. I was certain a pack of feral dogs had been let into the house, until I woke up enough to realize, it was my feral dog, pulling my towels off the rack in the bathroom, scrabbling to get through the bathroom door. I had been intelligent, and actually shut the door to my bedroom, because this week, it’s become a real habit of hers, that when Steph heads off to work, she goes out to potty and then cascades her wiggling, leaping, taloned form right into my face at seven am.
Steph took the brunt of that one, because she, sleeping downstairs in her own bedroom, was closest to the howls and heard their desperation. Apparently, much pooping was necessary from both dogs, to recover from the experience of having to share the living room with our friends small, new puppy. Feeling pretty blessed at this moment that they were able to wake up both of our tired asses to take them outside- but at 9:15 am- I was less than pleased.
Steph and I met each other in the kitchen, bleary, snippy and miserable. Both sets of our eyes glazed, pouring ourselves coffee and managing to both bitch about the shit sleep we’d gotten, because of the dogs, while also being nice to each other over our first cup of coffee.
The dogs, of course, were fine.
I drug my feet thru the kitchen, managed to feed them both, and plunked myself down on the couch, to absorb some TickTok and hopefully make myself feel better by consuming other people’s much better mornings.
Oh, did I mention, I found poop in a fluffy foo-fur jacket? This was while I was getting ready to curl up outside for my morning coffee/journaling routine in the open air.
I was already burn out before this mornings wrong side of the bed rising.
There are literally no embers in my internal fire, and last night felt like falling off a cliff into a jagged pile of rocks.
This level of creative exhaustion, combined with lack of sleep, had me as feral as a pole cat trapped in a bathroom. I was resistant to anything and everything I wanted to do.
If you’ve ever seen me in a bad mood, let’s all agree that “foul” is an excellent way to describe my expression as I sipped cold coffee and resiliently refused to pick a fight with Steph.
I had nothing left. No joy, no motivation, no energy even to move myself from the couch, to my bed, to go back to sleep and take a damn nap, so I could wake up kinder, and more prepared to people.
So, instead, I messaged Sam Myers, one of my coworkers, told him I was working from home today, and turned my phone fucking off.
That- is always a beginning to a better mood for me.
I finished my coffee,
I took a shower, because fuck, if I was miserable, at least I was going to be clean. I put on comfy, good smelling clothing, and I curled up in my bed, thinking I was going to be drawing my tattoo for tomorrow. I stared at my iPad and my sketchbook for about ten minutes, before giving up.
instead, I reached across to my bedside table, where two small journals lay. I was planning on perusing them both for inspiration regarding February’s Creativity Delivered Letter, and I fell into my own words.
Here’s what I found, as I opened the journal:
You are the treasure you are seeking.
You are worthy.
You are enough.
You have enough, do enough and create enough.
You may relax.
In 2012, I was struggling with the same concepts that I am struggling with now, in 2021.
I felt so seen, and held by myself, that I kept reading.
My thoughts are worth the price of beautifully deigned packaging. Worth the price of extravagance. Worth being treasured, adored, deconstructed and adapted to my own needs for nourishment.
I am enough, just as I am and I deserve well textured possessions, moments of transcendent delight, sunshine, adventure and treats. I am worth spending my own money on- even for frivolous pleasures, such as warm thigh high socks, or aesthetically pleasing, well made Doc Martins.
I am worth every dollar I spend, every breath I revel in, every honest gasp of delight- because I am alive, here and now.
I am, vibrantly alive as a person. My moments of hope and joy are my birthright.
All suffering is separation from the divine, and I am not separated from my soul’s divinity, or the shifting currents of the natural world.
I am, have been, and will continue to be, a spiritual being of light- focused on wellness and pleasure.
I am brave, adventurous, compassionate, robust, and vital. It is extremely necessary to love and support myself in my own life. I benefit myself with my pleasure, and in turn am a benefit to those around me, through self nourishment. I understand the magic of affirmations, and the ways lies and truths we tell ourselves, both: become our narrative- and form our beliefs about ourselves.
I am whole. I am fulfilled. I have everything I need.
I no longer need to strive forward, ambitious towards the next growth pattern of life. My soul knows the correct choices, the needed path for my own healing, and she sees resonance and omens everywhere- in the singing birds, or the flit of the seeking hummingbird.
I have a gentle wolf by my side, and she is training me into becoming exactly who I need to become. There is no further need for striving, or doing, or hoping. Right now, my lesson is just this:
Be present, and love myself as I actually am. Because who I am, is who I am meant to be, right this very moment.
My whole soul vibrated.
Not because I feel my writing is profound, or important for anyone else, but because I was able to open up a journal from my archives, begin reading it, and in conjunction with Coffee/Shower/Food/Permission to Rest, to effectively sooth my own heart.
What a powerful option to have in my creative toolbox.
One of my biggest flaws, as a friend, is that I am an external, verbal processor. Consentually most days, occasionally obsessively and compulsively unable to shut myself up. Flaw of the Gemini. Never dat a verbally processing Gemini, if you can’t hang with the verbosity of the wind.
Since my last car accident though, my verbal communication style has severely decreased in accessibility and efficiency.
Now, I talk in circles, my deeply obsessive nature, and neurotic tendencies on the surface, instead of a vibrating undercurrent, delved into only when the moment is right, or over deep, long, meaningful conversations.
And not only have I been feeling like I can’t physically speak efficiently, I feel pretty misunderstood most of the time. And this morning, suffering from a doozy of an emotional hang over, a desperate lack of sleep, and this gritty, sandpaper/frayed and smoldering canvas textured burnout- I was feeling worn pretty thin.
But as I read myself, speaking to myself, I responded. Deeply, as if I was reading words from a cherished lover, or my own best friend. I felt soothed, seen, understood, as if there was space for me to be, who I actually am, in this specific given moment. And that- that ability to redirect my own emotional maelstrom- by rereading myself, to me, is what I want for you, dear reader.
Sometimes, especially this last year, we won’t be able to access other people. Or we’re talking about feelings and ideas that hurt to much, or are to immense to share with another person. Or we’re just completely alone. And alone, with yourself, as a trusted companion, is better than a fresh box of baby ferrets to play with.
The experience got me thinking, this cannot be just a “Finn Thing”. And so, I ask you:
What is an instance, where you were able to use yourself, your thoughts, or your own externally expressed emotional processing, to really, see yourself? What’s a moment when you experienced a profound emotional homecoming, looking at your own heart?
If you haven’t yet, you know what I’m gonna say.
Go get your journal, and start writing right now.
There is no one here to save you, except yourself. Your life is your responsibility, and I, personally, am finding it a pleasure to see who I am, when I am honestly putting pen to paper, or revisiting my own thoughts. You deserve really good love from yourself. Try it. See how it feels. Or, use my above question, as a journaling prompt to delving a little deeper, into a moment where you already showed immense strength and fortitude. A moment where you were a champion for yourself, even in such a simple way, as I was today.
I would love to hear about your experiences in the comment section below.