As a young child of about eight years old I told my father I wanted to write a book. He told me, “Well that takes a really long time.” In a voice that sounded like he didn’t believe I had what it took to do something that would take a long time. It became a common theme in my life. Something that I would hear time and again to the point that if something didn’t have immediate results I didn’t even try.
I thought I wasn’t creative. I loved art and reading but didn’t think I had what it took to be an artist or writer. How I yearned to be both. I thought about writing all the time but every time I sat in front of the white page I would hear those old familiar voices telling me “I wasn’t good enough,” “Who did I think I was,” and “Don’t you get bigger than your britches.”
I saw color everywhere I looked and thought about how it would look in a painting or photograph. My heart ached at the thought that I wasn’t creative and wouldn’t be able to express the colors in a painting or picture.
My inner critic would ridicule my efforts, any time I sat down to write or draw, telling me that it was horrible writing or drawing, that I might as well give up since I was never going to be good enough.
My mother taught me to crochet when I was about ten years old. This seemed to be an acceptable creative outlet as long as I didn’t try to do any really big projects. I also cooked my first meal at that age. It was a measure of worth in my family to be a woman that has good cooking skills. Another acceptable creative outlet though I didn’t realize until I was much older that it was creative.
Somehow I got it into my mind that cooking and crocheting weren’t hard so I could do them. It wasn’t risky. It wasn’t a challenge. By the time I was in my late twenties I was crocheting blankets for everyone I knew. I had discovered how to crochet with a large hook that made it faster to create them. I stuck with traditional colors and cheap yarns. Nothing fancy, nothing daring.
I began writing in a journal in my late teens, mostly writing poetry that I told myself wasn’t very good. For years you can look through my journals and see my dreams of someday writing, of fussing at myself for not being strong enough to write.
In my early thirties I began writing seriously. I was writing around eight to ten pages a day. I had finally learned how to type and the words were flowing out of me. I thought to myself that I would finish this book in no time if I kept this up.
Many life changes happened shortly after that. I came out to myself and to my family. I became like a teenager all over again. I didn’t know the rules of dating. I explored for about a year until getting into a serious long term relationship.
I couldn’t find the flow of my writing again. It was probably because I was no longer sure of who I was or what I wanted with life. More lamenting in my journals about not writing, wishing I could write, why am I not writing and going long periods of not writing in my journal.
Every time I would get serious about writing again it would sound preachy or I would get in the flow for about one hundred pages then I would let something get in the way.
Becoming More Courageous
Around forty-three years old things began to slowly change. I began journaling in a more healing way. I began doodling in my journal as well as writing. I was writing and drawing for me and I liked it. I was enjoying it for myself. It didn’t matter if other people liked it; it was for me and my healing.
I am now almost forty-seven and at the beginning of this year many things came together for me and shifted for the better.
I had been working with my shadow for a couple of years but I discovered within my Shamanic Astrology chart that my life really was all about shadow. Much of me had been shoved inside for me to take out, rediscover, clear, and integrate at later times. I discovered that it was necessary for me to walk with shadow on a daily basis for me to have a true understanding of shadow and how to help others with it.
When I really understood that, my creativity jumped through the roof; I literally had the doors blown off the hinges to my creativity and I was creating all the time. So much was coming through me that I would lay in bed feeling like I was vibrating, unable to sleep until I would just get up and continue creating. I had found my purpose. I found what was necessary for my creativity. I found myself and my direct connection to the Divine and my Muse.
This is why I am here. This is why it took me so long to find my way. I had to really understand what it meant to walk with shadow and feel what it was like to be stuck in the underworld before my path became clear.
I enjoy my days and nights of creating. I did have to finally ask my guides to give me a little break because I wasn’t sleeping much and I could feel my body breaking down. I told them if they wanted me to be able to write and create all that they wanted me to write and create then I needed to be able to have a good night’s sleep.
Now I am on a steadier stream of creativity that I can shut off when I need to. This doesn’t mean that everything in my life is suddenly glorious. It just means that I feel differently now. As long as I remember to connect in, create what wants to come through, then it doesn’t matter as much what is going on around me. I am living my purpose and it feels wonderful.
I am now living courageously bold and juicy. I love to help others do the same.
Now it is your turn. What is your creative story? What have you always wanted to create but stopped yourself from creating? If you are creative how did you find a way around your creative blocks to create what you felt compelled to create?
Blessings on Your Creative Journey,
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Thanks for sharing your thoughts.