I tend to question myself and what I’m doing, intensely, and some would argue, too much. (**Quit being so analytical, you’re making the rest of us really uncomfortable.) I am certain there is no such thing. Sure, it’s messy, exhausting, and really annoying. I know. But I have one life to live, and it’s been a whole big mess, and I want to break free of that mess before I’m done. I’m wired to beat the struggle. I will.
Why the analysis? Because I mean it. I want to beat this, and when I pick at and polish a little burr long enough, something starts to gleam through. These little brightnesses, tucked into a pouch, are all I’ve got sometimes. (I’m talking about inside of me. Outside of me, that’s a whole different thing. Outside of me, in fact, is as close to the illusion that is perfect as it can be.)
Yesterday, I fell into the sand trap between Freedom and What’s The Point? Brutal way to spend the day. There was a sucky spot in there, and I fell into the treacherous quicksands of tasky-ness. I lost 40 minutes of my life reeling in tasky-ness – the opposite of peaceful productivity. Everything I grabbed to stop the suck fell in the hole with me. It felt bad.
Somehow, I walked out of the house. I reached out, called out, and found “togetherness.” With loving supports, I shook the tree, and some apples dropped. They are nice apples.
– What’s the point?
Even if there are one hundred million images of birds and flowers in the world already, and you are making another damn bird, or flower, do it. If a bird or a flower is the heart’s song of the day, make it. Feel it. Expel it. Smile at it. Or frown at it and hate it and hide it under some stuff, until you look at it another time and say, “Hmm, actually it’s not so bad.” Some days are like that.
If the hum in your soul wants flowers, it should get flowers. If it wants birds, give it birds. If it wants twirly, whimsical vines, feed it vines. If it wants to write about shit everyone has already written about, and it wants to use really dorky prose, spit it out. If it wants dark, seepy char, get on with it. Get through it. Clear that channel, and roll on.
We have an innate way of moving through this life. The soul, the intuition, a moral compass – call it what you want, but if you suffocate it’s vibrancy, your navigation will be faulty. You will be limited instead of limitless, and a hundred horrible bird drawings will be clogging you up, keeping you from peace.
It’s easy. Listen for it. It might sound like, “Birds, that’s been done, no fame for me in birds,” after your heart whisper-sings, “draw birds.” Which might then become, “draw birds, you asshole.” And I’m serious, you better make some birds.
One of a few things will happen. You’ll make some birds, and you’ll freak out – marking the beginning of your awkward relationship with birds, for as long as you both shall live. Or, you’ll be done, and feel resolved, and cap your pen, and go lay in the sun and celebrate your bird-making. Or, you’ll keep making birds. Many, many birds. The most excellent and wildly astounding birds.
Either way, your soul will ring, and you will feel that ringing, and you will know you are alive. You will feel free. You will feel whole. You will feel something. This will let you shine. You will shine in your own fantastic and unimaginably unique way. Your shine will speak to and light the way in this world. It will brighten and provoke all of the collective “us,” and you will be contributing in ways you will never, ever be able to measure. That is the point, and we’re best to not forget it.