You can only lose what you cling to. Buddha This is seriously my a-ha moment for the day.
I ate my cheese and tomato toastie in the middle of my backyard with the sun on my back. I watched as a couple of butterflies fluttered over the garden shed, and a crow flew over my head. The wind moved my son’s school clothes ever so slightly on the line. A pigeon kept on cooing. Not so far away, ants fraternised madly with a twig, as though it may come to life; its sun-dried leaves remained flat against the pavement. My body still felt heavy from a harsh run with Winter colds, but everything around me was soothing and ready to float. I looked up at our gum tree, holding my arm up to shield from rays, and the tree seemed to acknowledge me. “Don’t worry,” it said. “I will take care of you.”
Write every day, they say. I’ve been getting stuck into my beloved Jack Canfield, dealing with feelings that have taken me by surprise, reading my old journals and searching within. I’d forgotten about my internal pledges all those years ago to become a writer. It was such an unusual feeling to be reminded of how badly I once wanted it. For a passion that was embedded so deeply, how and why could I have let it go? I think back to who I was back then, and I started to theorise that maybe it never got off the ground because it was all about the idea of being a writer. The sheer romance of it all. It would explain why I never submitted my work — well, I could count on one hand the work that I sent — but that doesn’t make much sense to me because I don’t submit my images for photographic competitions and awards as a photographer today either. I could also argue that perhaps I just wasn’t ready for submission …
About a year ago I sold a load of my writing books. And now I want them back. Something is stirring in me. The opacity slider on my internal creative wall is making its way over to the left hand side. This is a good thing.