I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what causes me to be so hesitant to create. I’ve explored all of the usual fears about failure and success, and I am aware of how those fears do get in my way. But I’ve always been aware that there’s something more holding me back that I haven’t been able to identify.
As I’ve wrestled with this today in preparation for writing tonight’s post, two intertwined gremlins in my thinking have surfaced that may explain more of why this is such a struggle for me.
I was talking on the phone a couple of nights ago to a friend whom I haven’t talked to in a while. We were doing the usual catching up on news when he asked me how I was. I gave the usual “Oh, I’m fine” response, but he persisted. “Are you happy?” he asked, and he really wanted to know. I stopped and thought for just a moment and discovered that I could truthfully say that I am. I am happy.
It felt good to acknowledge that. The last week or two has been filled with a lot of good things—from some significant amounts of rain (finally! yay!) to kind gestures from several friends to a few bits of unexpected good news trickling in here and there. I have several areas in my life that are in the midst of change or the beginnings of new things that all are looking very promising. It feels really good to be able to sit back and see so many blessings sprinkling in throughout all different areas of my life.
I am happy in a calm, contented kind of way. I am also feeling quite hopeful that these changes and new possibilities will bring additional good things my way. And I’m noticing that this brings up resistance in me. Hope has not always been a good thing for me. It’s a fragile little bird that is all too easily crushed.
A Writing to Heal group that I am part of is writing about the following prompt (originally from Spiritual Memoir) this week:
Scar: Choose a scar on your body; write your scar’s story, exploring what it means to be scarred and other, internal ways you’ve been scarred.
The only physical scars I have that I ever pay any attention to are two small X’s on the palm of my right hand. During the summer of the year I was seven, I fell in a playground and badly scraped up my palm on some gravel. The skin healed rather quickly, but it had become infected. I am told that my entire palm had turned color, and the color was spreading up my fingers. Surgery was performed in order to place two tubes into my palm to allow for drainage. The exit site of each of the tubes is now one of the X’s cut into my palm.