I have this love hate relationship with writing. Rather, with my writing. My relationship and motivations behind it.
On one hand, writing is my saviour. It has guided me through some of my darkest days, when the heavy cloak of sadness weighed across my shoulders and clouded my vision. It has helped bring about a sense of understanding within the confusion. Allowed me to connect with myself. Given me a space to be open and honest when words failed me.
And yet, the other hand deals the cards fraught with pressure and self doubt.
Because what is the point of my writing?
Surely there has to be a point?
This other hand traces the ominous question mark above my head asking what is right to write about? This blog, for example. Is to write about yourself in such a way just hideously self indulgent? A desperate plea for attention?
Should I be so open? If I truly let my innermost feelings spill across the keyboard, will the end result be far too messy to ever repair?
For the longest time I have flitted between writing on this blog (which, actually, fills me with an energy only likened to that I find on the yoga mat and comes oh so naturally) and trying to force my creativity into other outlets. I take myself to fiction workshops and attempt fiction exercises. I research and pull together articles to submit to yoga websites and the like. I wonder whether I should be working on a writing project.
You know. Something that matters. Something that would be deemed as “better writing.”
The things I should be doing.
All those feelings, all those questions? They’re god damn exhausting.
I heard a quote today on The Good Life Project. It was in reference to the intrinsic links floating between yoga, meditation and writing.
“I wonder sometimes when I write… wouldn’t it be cool if I could create an experience that could bring somebody to the same point that they were at when they were on their knees… in terms of an openness and motivation to take action… without actually having to have their shins hit the floor?” – Jonathan Fields
And it made think…
If writing in this open, raw, self questioning and discovering way I do gives me even a small element of the feeling when I am deep in the midst of a yoga practice… maybe I can give other people that feeling too?
Maybe it’s something I need to clutch hold of, rather than push away.
Because writing? It’s my practice. It’s my meditation. It takes me anywhere I want to be and turns the volume down on all the noise around me.
Isn’t that enough? Doesn’t that matter?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that in this quick fix world we live in where answers are constantly a few seconds away at the edge of our finger tips, sometimes we can question things too much. And sometimes, the answer is far simpler than we could ever have imagined.
Or, at least, we can allow the answer to be simple.
We live in a society of intense pressure. Whether it’s the worry of why we are doing something or whether we are doing something enough (I couldn’t count the amount of times the worry of having not written for so long stops me from writing entirely… even with my journal! My journal for goodness sake!), there’s the constant niggle prodding you in the side until you trip out of the present moment and into that messy place of self doubt.
I think… I THINK… I’m finally committing to the path of saying thank you, but goodbye to the niggle and carrying on regardless.
And the first step? This. My writing.
Carrying on. Persevering.
Tipping the scales back into love.