I remember a time in my life when I was living a blue collar existence and there were mornings when I had to put off my work because I had to write. I had to. There were words in me that were bursting to the surface and if I didn’t write them down they would be lost forever. The mornings these words flowed through me I felt a sense of fulfillment I’d never felt before. I felt elevated to a higher purpose, to a higher state of being. As if in those moments I was no longer a receiving clerk, that in those moments as those words manifested through me, I had risen.
But I was always brought back down by this resounding collective condescension, that manifested as my own voice echoing the doubt regurgitated by so many people in my life. It was there mocking me constantly. Slowly I began to question this trickster’s credibility and started to examine what separated me from writers. What was it that kept me from taking my seat at the table?
I recognized this idea that artists were separate from the rest of us. That they, in their act of creation, ascended to heights untouchable by the common human. I realized that it was this act of creation that facilitated their ascension. That all I needed do, was write. And that in this act of creation, I would ascent into the untouchable realm of the artist. That I would ascend into heaven. And that in this act of creation, I had one responsibility: to get out of the way … to be simply a bridge to the infinite void where all creative works emanate from. I didn’t have to bring the talent, it would be provided. All I had to do was show up, slow down and connect to the Source.
So here I am, showing up.