Confession: I delete the vignettes.
Correction: I delete the vignettes and a second completed writing piece.
Clarification: I delete the ready-to-be-shared writings and feel a click of freedom.
I follow feeling, and the instant heart-lift affirms I made the best-aligned decision.
Logic argues a counter case.
Logic sputters and squabbles about the valuable time! attached to the pieces, the price of coffee spent to claim a corner and concentrate on communing with the Muse, and the effort driven into those edited presentations of soul-truth.
The sheer effort red-flags the enterprise.
Yes, collaborating with creativity requires potentially precarious persistence and a commitment to the mercurial whims of curiosity. But if the gritty exploration unflinchingly follows a truth, especially an uncomfortable truth, then there is an undercurrent of ease that enlivens and sustains the vision until its launched into printed fruition.
Those two writing pieces thirst for that nectar of heaven-sent guidance.
The actual writing purrs fine, there’s a steadiness to the prose, but the pulse sluggishly labors.
I press an inquisitive ear to that half-hearted beat and discover expectation executed the crafted lines instead of the wildflower bursts and firefly chases of inspiration. I unmask the narrator and find a wound self-righteously seething instead of a healed and strongly soft offering of inner knowing.
I choose flow over force.
I choose to cocoon the wound until the energetic charge transmutes into a befriended vulnerability I then can confidently and comfortably share with the outer world.
I choose to trust my own internal rhythm of creativity over the time-clock concerned about how long it has been since my last post. Let me be free from that manic modern urgency to produce in the desperate need to prove that I am a devoted writer.
Living informs the writing and stretches of purposeful rest nourish the muse.
So, I delete the two writings and the erasure echoes a strange serenity.
The unexpected calmness hints that a test has been passed. A moment-to-moment test that encourages deeper and deeper authenticity, an honesty infused with compassion.
Perhaps this is a choosing of kindness: a relinquishment of self-forged rules that inhibit my writing.
I soften into a realness that pulls me to reflect in journal pages and propels me to the listening hearts of the loved ones who hold unconditional supportive space.
Once I surrender the internal pressure, the wrestle to write and publish, spaciousness streams in and restores. Spaciousness rehydrates the remembering of how I intend to live – from this powerful and peaceful presence of being.
Presence brightens the world around and within me, and once I rest and reside there the muse appears and I can just be in her company, in faith of our star-destined timing of creative scheming.
And there is kindness here, a kindness that blooms from redirecting my choice to mirror my current needs, my current and shifting mood. And this kindness feels like this spring-water-refreshing breeze that brings her voice to me: “Sometimes, we do get a cool summer.”
I savor this version of a Texas cool summer by slowly sipping a cappuccino from a turquoise mug and admire the chipped and glossy remains of a maroon manicure, an act of self-care, of self-love. And on this Sunday morning in June, there is an ease that reintroduces me to my own flow of writing, that lets me make peace with the present and writes me forward at the exact same time.
Confession: These are my favorite moments.
Correction: These are the life-moments I accept so sweetly and graciously let them dissolve into a new way of being.
Clarification: I write this to rekindle the remembering to choose kindness, and how kindness feels like a magical gift of a cool summer Texas morning.