Year Two

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

Two years ago, I stared at a blank page while thinking about an upcoming birthday. Words flowed onto paper as I lovingly recalled Fourth of July celebrations growing up. Out of friendship, I emailed the little ditty to the woman whose writing workshop I had attended a few years prior. Though it was late at night, she replied favorably that it was a lovely trip down memory lane, and that I should consider sharing my thoughts publicly. Over the next two days, a variety of pieces uncannily fell into place. 

Emboldened, I decided to take the next step and launch my website. I was terrified. Completely, utterly terrified. As a very small speck in the internet galaxy, all I desired was the chance to convey memories and happiness in an otherwise chaotic world.What began as an ongoing exercise in courage, discipline, and creativity (and a potentially fun side hustle for retirement) has turned into a walk of incredible personal growth. 

As a recovering perfectionist, a writing practice has fostered greater discipline and consistency – a struggle in my former all-or-nothing mentality. While posts do not come weekly as of late, they still come — from a desire to not overwhelm subscriber inboxes and from a place of making peace with, and embracing, the fluid and often erratic nature of life. 

I often question the value of my personal (self-perceived little) thoughts. Most everyone is looking for the magic elixir of contentment. And many writers willingly share their life hacks for attaining happiness. But amid the complexities of our current society, I find that the tincture of time remains the most powerful medicine for change.

I often revisit my idyllic childhood in rural Pennsylvania as a reminder of my roots. Inheriting my compulsions honestly (my mother sought the painfully impeccable in many realms), these past perfectionist habits have finally exhausted me. In addition, free time is limited as I still work and represent the tremendously large portion of regular Joes and Janes keeping the globe spinning. Yes, I know our world’s issues. No, I personally do not have to contribute to the already-saturated dialogue in place on multiple media platforms. 

There are others like me who choose to focus on the simple and positive; topics that, at the end of the day, hopefully offer a moment of stability, tranquility or a smile. So, I have run with that — out of preference, not ignorance. And by your comments, you seem to enjoy my trajectory. (My heartfelt thanks to those who read and post comments!)

I never felt that creativity was an attribute I possessed in great quantity. Like many, I grew up doing crafts, but struggled to stick with any one thing. Creative writing was certainly never part of the plan. School papers were always burdensome volumes of outright arbor suicide. More was always better, right? Alas, no. Though I received good grades, writing was an assigned chore, not an enjoyable outlet. It was not until a college friend offered to edit papers for me, and made them hemorrhage with her red pen, that I realized it was time to be more economical with words and, in so doing, save a few forests. 

In the early years of my career, journaling for stress management offered the not-so-subtle realization that I felt loads better after dumping my swirling consciousness onto a blank page. I was onto something and desired more of it. I kept writing, often immediately shredding these private thoughts so no one would accidentally come across my irreverent angst-induced rants.

Eventually, I started reading for pleasure again. Thanks to the internet, I found a few writers whose work I enjoyed. One —the woman mentioned above— was offering a workshop. After attending on a whim, I left with a new sense of purpose and the courage to indulge my creativity.

Overachieving (most notably self-punishment) used to be my daily jam. Now, in its place, I enjoy a heightened awareness of that inclination, and a stronger ability to call off the dogs when the urge to stampede toward self-inflicted, ridiculous personal goals “must” be achieved. My near-daily practice of writing and sharing my thoughts has become a journey of liberation from the perfectionism that held me back for so many years.

Putting my thoughts out there was one of the bravest  things I have ever done. This shy country girl felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. She expected to be laughed at (which she was), the subject of eye rolls (check), and her collective thoughts referred to as a “hippie blog.” In the past, these judgments would have stopped me cold. Now they make me smile. My glass is full. And the glass ceiling on personal expression for my ancestral women has been broken. I continue, undaunted, in tune with my heart and its desires. The ability to sit with discomfort or imperfection, and to process through it for healthier outcomes, has lead to the biggest gift of all: the acceptance of, and permission to be, who I am, right here, right now.

Admittedly, I was a bit late to the party. Still, all it took was putting my pen to paper.