I knew I was beautiful
In my Cuernavaca dress…
I’m in the middle of the beginning, writing a song. The voices have started. Imagined criticisms, known by the serious-minded as critique. Rules I’ve forgotten to follow. Rules I’ve chosen to break, then doubted.
These voices dwell in the all-knowing smart side of my brain. To turn them off, I keep moving forward. Trusting my sense of direction, I follow my instinct until I find all the treasure buried, hidden in darkness, waiting for me to uncover.
A song is a delicate thing to find.
When I find myself trying too hard, moving forward looks like backing off. But it’s not. I’m waiting. I’m waiting until I feel the search for treasure beckoning me again.
“Backing Off” may last fifteen minutes or a day. Or even much longer. But the treasure, the gold, the jewels, the mysteries. They wait. They wait to be found.
Walking away is part of my messy creative process. It keeps me embracing the less smart, more childlike part of my brain.
I used to believe that walking away was failure. But I’ve learned something about myself. I don’t give up, even when tempted to believe the whispers of failure echoing inside of me.
Instead I choose to remember. This is me, the one who waits, then creates, then waits some more.
Until the muse beckons me once again.