I decided I was going to try and take part in NaNoWriMo this year. So far it isn’t going excellent, but I did get something done today. Introspection. I have a book, Writing Begins with the Breath by Laraine Herring. It has exercises in it and, on top of just freewriting, I also did a particular exercise. I don’t mind sharing, because perhaps it’ll make others struggling to find their way feel better because they aren’t alone.
I don’t know if I can do this. NaNoWriMo is a big deal, it’s fifty thousand words. How could I possibly fill that many words and make them mean something? How can I create something that soothes my soul? I don’t even know what my soul wants, what it needs. I know that my god and goddess make me feel heard by the universe. I know they respond and care about me. I know that [Zolfyer] is someone I love deeply. He makes me feel safe and protected, from the world and myself. I trust him to look after me and give me love. I know I want a child, so strongly that it’s nearly desperate. I don’t know why I wish for that so incredibly, even as I find myself terrified of being responsible for another life. I know I love plants. They are quiet and soft, steady and strong. Their spirits are easy to connect to, and they make me feel alive. I can learn a lot from them and they quiet and steady me. I know I love animals and wish so often to be a wolf. They are beautiful animals, they love their pack and care for each other. Strong, quiet, soft. They suffer from harsh weather and the simplicity of fighting for your food. And yet, and yet I wish to be one. Patience. Cooperation. I love the night, the moon calls to me as a light calls a moth. It is the eye of my god watching me at times, and others it is a guiding light. One that soothes and reaches out. I love the setting sun and the dawn. The between, the horizon. A blazing death of the sun, shattering the skies with its power and gorgeousness, a cool birth that gains strength. Fall and spring, the very air is charged with a certain energy. Nature holds its breath, the in between curls around me. The cool air is safe and inviting, the plants preparing for death and sleep, the whole world preparing for it. The power of their spirits returning in spring, growing and spreading, reaching out to me. Trees whisper to wake each other.
Writing begins with this breath. The breath of change, the sigh of sleep, of release. The yawn of waking, of growing. The breath of the wind, the breath of nature, as it shifts, as it moves, as it cools and as it warms, the touch of rain, the wash of water, the heat of the sun. Ah, this is where writing begins. Everywhere around me it breathes, it searches, it stretches. It soothes.
Is this why I reach for my camera in spring and fall? Why I watch the blossoms grow and shift, why I love the black and white? How I miss taking pictures.
I’m finally going to do these exercises for this book. Here’s the first one.
When I am at a crossroads I…
stall. I run away or stand there as long as I possibly can doing nothing. I’ve no confidence in my ability to make decisions for myself, especially if they are important. Why should I be? They are often belittled or overridden, or both. Crossroads are scary places for me, because they are lined with those who question me so much that I cannot be certain of myself or their paths. These same people also have so many ideas, thoughts and suggestions (though they can often be called commands and instructions) that I have too much information and too many options. Then I am questioned more, interrogated even, and my confidence and willingness to cooperate is shot even more. When I finally make a decision, if it’s possible, it is still hounded and I am plagued with uncertainty and regret over whether I made the best decision. Either that or the decision is overturned and I am forced the way someone else thinks is the best way, if I’m given the ability to decide on my own in the first place. It is…counterproductive. I am not capable of relying on my own intuition and wisdom. I am not often given the benefit of the doubt as to whether I am able to make the appropriate decision for myself, on my own. I have been told that I am incompetent and unreliable, I am still told regularly that I am not an adult. I still have no respect. I am lost and stuck at crossroads, frozen and panic-stricken, heckled and doubted.
Change means…
loss. Initially I was going to go with the classic “fear”, but loss is what came out. Change is loss, you are losing the old for the new. You are leaving behind the security of the known for the unknown. Change is panic, change is annoying. Change is refreshing, yet it does not refresh. It is a way to move things along. The irony is that change may not purge stagnation, and even when it does, you may be so plagued by stress and aggravation that you feel no relief, even if it’s what you wanted. I have had many things in my life change, not all of them for the better, as all people experience. Recently I experienced change in the form of a new goddess. The Queen of Light and Dark, Persephone. She requested to work with me and Anpu and Aset agreed. They are even enthusiastic about Persephone’s presence. They think it is a good change of pace. She does not seem like one who will cause me undue duress, and has already reached out to me. How can I turn them down, when they all are so excited to help me? Yet, I still have no idea what She wants.
Fear means…
itself. I honestly do not know what to think about this. Fear is itself, it reaches into every corner of life to warn you, to hold you back. Sometimes it is unnecessary and unwelcome, but fear always has a purpose. It is always warning you of something, whether that be undesired revelations or the contents of the creepy closet. Fear is a catalyst, it will either hamper you or inspire you. Can you push past the barrier of fear to write? Can you understand why you’re afraid of what you write, and what you want to write? How can you use that fear to help you, to push you forward? Fear always reveals something; it reveals what you want, what you don’t want, what you hide and why. I hide from those who know me, for I fear they will read it and be angry or dismissive. “You’re not depressed, it is just being a teenager.” You’re not an adult until I say you are. You know nothing of that. You are liar, arrogance, selfishness. When you are told such things you begin to fear your perspective, your sanity, your mind and opinion. You begin fearing whether you are capable of truth and of knowledge. Can I be wise? Can I tell truth? Can my writing show selflessness and humility, while being true to myself and perspective? Is my mind valid?
Risk means…
Change and Terror. Panic, but a potentially worthy pursuit. Risk is exposure, it is weeping. You tear down your walls and put yourself out there, inviting the world to look at your wounds and scars. Will they see what you hope for, or what you always feared? Is risk worth it? You open yourself to criticism, to misunderstanding. You expose yourself to abuse and name-calling. Are you brave enough? Are you strong enough? Risk is gathering your strength, your hope, your trust and placing it on the block. Will you be lauded or crucified? Lynched or paraded? Will others see your truths, will they be helped or harmed? Who knows, but everywhere there is risk. You risk your life in so many ways every day. You risk your sanity, your health, all the time. Here, there be demons.
The Woods of My Heart 