Being Real

I’ve been struggling the last couple weeks, trying to get back into the swing of things after the holidays. Grief has pulled me by the ankles into the Underworld. Regret circles like a dark fin in the water of my subconscious.

Moon at night over the sea

I know, to some degree, what is going on. I’m grieving the loss of my mother. I’m feeling regret about some decisions that changed the trajectory of my life. And I can feel an insight being born.

Whether I simply bring this insight into my life, or make art from it, the process that I’m going through is the mystery at the core of being human.

It’s hard to write, when I’m in this place.

I’ve started three different blog posts, only to set them aside. I can’t make sense of anything. Whatever insight wants to come into the light is still forming on the edge of my periphery.

I often struggle with this part of the creative process, and try to control it. I don’t want to feel the grief and regret, but there’s nothing I can do to think or analyze my way out of it. There’s no shortcut; I have to surrender, feel what I feel, and be honest about it.

I just have to be real. I also have to be patient, and let go of my desire to control the result, to wrap it up with a nice, neat bow.

Because I know—from going through this process countless times in my life—that when it looks like all is lost, if I stay present, I will be able to bring a piece of treasure back from my journey to the Underworld.

An insight, in a piece of writing.

A wordless response, in color and form.

A reconnection with my own ballast, centering me in an uncertain world.

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