i said goodbye to tobacco two days ago, and i’m already ready to welcome her back into my life..
wow, trying to get myself to write again has been a very real struggle.. even now my sense of motivation and purpose continues to wane..
it’s the autumnal equinox, a time when the day and the night are evenly balanced.. and i can feel that reflected in my internal state.. as i work on letting go and opening up to something new, i find myself confronting scars and wounds i’ve been carrying with me for decades.
i’ve missed writing, but i haven’t missed the sense of never being good enough. of the perfectionism that reflects my deep fear of being seen in my fullness.. it’s much easier to deem my own work “not good enough” instead of leaving it up to someone else to decide.
i’m tired. and i’m antsy. and i’m eager. and i’m ready for i know not what.
i keep getting messages around patience.. which makes sense as i occupy this liminal space. i have a sense of being led, guided, and prepared for something. it’s like following bread crumbs, trusting they’re leading me somewhere important.
i’m in such deep craving for purpose, direction, service, for a clear calling.. and i have yet to gain clarity around what that is exactly. to offer another metaphor, it’s like sculpting from a solid block, and as i continue to chip away, the image becomes clearer, but i still don’t know quite what i’m creating or striving to create.
wow, i’ve missed writing.. it’s strange the ways in which we deny ourselves the exact things that nurture and support us. i guess it’s fear.. of not adding up, not being worthy, falling flat.. or maybe it’s the comfort of the struggle, the simplicity of merely surviving.. it keeps life uncomplicated in a way, keeps me from not having to look too far ahead.. there’s a sense of being able to shirk responsibility without guilt when i’m barely getting by.. and so maybe staying in this state is a sort of limiting self-protection..