Writing is interesting. If I let myself write what comes to mind, I open a door to learning a lot about myself. It’s like collecting puzzle piece after puzzle piece. I’m not sure what the end picture will be (and sometimes I get impatient and wonder what the heck I’m doing and where I’m going), though something inside I can’t quite put my finger on pulls me onward — to try and stay in place is getting harder and somehow hurts more. So I keep on.
I’m becoming more aware of where I’m trying to be like others rather than being myself, or where I’m comparing myself to others. That famous writer shares all? Maybe I should too. Wait…does that really feel good to me or am I trying to be like someone whom I’ve deemed “successful”?
And on the thought of sharing: this space has many layers with additional complexities when others are in the picture. It’s one thing to share my stories. But another’s story (unless I’ve explicitly gotten permission)? No, it doesn’t seem mine to share. What about the stories that intertwine (and many do)? What then? I usually learn much about myself as I comb through stories, and writing things down can help further sort out thoughts. And perhaps that is the place to stay with some stories. I’m feeling out which ones. Am I holding back because I’m hit a personal nerve in my own stuff, or is this one to write for myself?
I’m seeing where I edit my life, both for that “other” out there as well as myself. I’m practicing asking: “Why are you doing this?” — and then giving myself space to consider and reply.
I didn’t enjoy writing much growing up. English essays felt like shoulds; I hated having to document sources in history, science, and anywhere else it was required. Maybe it’s more fun now because I’m using myself as a source to learn from (and this feels huge, somehow — to look inward for advice and direction rather than outside). On an unknown level it feels good, so I’ll keep collecting puzzle pieces. I think I kind of need to — I want to see what the puzzle turns out to be.
Photos from this morning. The first one is courtesy of my littlest pumpkin.