when left alone with my thoughts
and other selfish, time consuming, life-giving, joyous little things
The steam from my tea scolds the palms of my hands as I pause to wiggle my fingers over the keyboard. Waiting for the nod to begin again.
A reflection of the window plays out on the computer screen in front of me: a tree brushing up against a very blue sky. The tiny silver moon. A woman playing fetch with her dog. I wonder about going outside. I wonder how many layers I would need to stay warm.
Writing while sitting on the floor of my closet is a new-found comfort, and with few distractions, I can actually stay focused. About a year ago I took the doors off and put up artwork, which I guess makes it more of a creative space than the traditional closed-door, dusty-light, long-coats, portal-to-a-different-realm situation you might be thinking of (although, I like to think the latter is true for all closets).
As I type this, my thoughts are loud, anxious, and demanding, but I’m doing my best not to listen too closely. Sipping on my tea instead, I look outside again and wonder about writing—about how much I want to ask of it, and how afraid I am of what it has to say when I finally do.
If you are someone who cares a lot of what others think of you (often referred to as being a people pleaser), then welcome. As you know, it’s not a comfy place, but the good (and bad) news is: there will always be people who won’t like what we have share, and there’s—correct me if I’m wrong—really just a handful of people’s opinions that we’re actually worried about…and are likely putting too much weight on.
Somewhat out of necessity, I spent a lot of time with my thoughts over the past few years, and eventually, I developed (a bit more of) an understanding of my brain. Specifically, everything it thinks it needs to do in order to keep me safe.
While with my thoughts, I put into action a few not-very-profound things: first, if you find it doesn’t sit well, you don’t have to share everything with everyone—instead, only sharing an amount that feels good to you. And second, you will never do the things you most want to do, if you spend most of the time worried that someone will disapprove. Like I said: someone always will.
To a certain degree, I think it can be healthy to care what a very select few think of you (maybe your best friend or partner—somewhere where mutual trust has been built and tested). However, caring too of much of what everyone thinks of you can be problematic. It can tug at your sleeves and make decisions without your consent. It can convince you that: unless you achieve the impossible task of being approved by everyone, then you will never be enough.
A brief interlude: Giving itself up entirely to the moon and her stars, the room is enveloped by cool, calming tones. Now having gone completely cold, I get up to pour myself another cup of tea before folding myself back into the closet.
Our desire to create is something that we collectively have in common, but the way in which we relate to it is entirely dependent on things both within and outside of our control. For some, the act of creating is one of the most important relationships they will ever have. On the same side of that coin, it’s a relationship that can cause hurt if not tended to properly, even driving us to do things we wouldn’t otherwise do. Making it something that we have to take extra good care of, and be extra patient with.
Because even when we create something physical, creativity itself remains untouchable—something we don’t get to control or understand or dictate how it feels to anyone other than ourselves.
And I knew that I’d eventually have to take ownership over my side of the street. That I’d have to go through the slog that is to mend and heal and mend and heal. That I would have to allow my opinion to be the first I listened to as I cautiously tip toed my way back.
Most of all, I really don’t want to rush things—I don’t want to make this (creating) be anything other than what it always has been to me: a selfish, time consuming, life-giving, joyous little thing.
It’s been awhile since I’ve trusted in the feeling of home. That soft space tucked gently behind our ribs. The space just between yes, no, maybe, and I just don’t know. But we’re getting there. Slowly slowly slowly.
Talk soon,
Chloe
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