Tag Archives: inspiration

Are You Listening?

There is more

Something we don’t listen for

It cries

And in our ignorance

It dies

 

 

by Daphne Shadows

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Filed under Not that Kind of Poetry

Demons Within

“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.”

  • African Proverb

 

Do you know yourself?

Are you aware of yourself?

Do you know what you want, really? What you dream of, what you fear, what you desire, what you do not like…

Do you notice yourself?

Or do you go along with everyone and everything going on outside of you?

 

Know Thyself.

It’s the only way to find the truth of this proverb.

 

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Do You Forget?

 

Sometimes, we need the reminder.

 

“Beauty surrounds us.”

  • Rumi

 

Kareeva

Kareeva

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Filed under The Odd Bit

Before Therapy

I’m about to go to my therapy appointment.

Feeling a bit… shall we say… internal, today.

Self-analyzing, philosophical. Quiet.

I’m also truly there again.

Not completely, it’s only a minor slope. But it’s a definite downward lull.

 

Dead.

Void.

Don’t care.

But then again, I do.

Why else would I feel on edge?

 

Depression and anxiety feed off of one another, trapping me between a rock and a hard place. An immovable object against an unstoppable force.

 

I’m find joy in multiple things today.

I do.

I feel joy in the lesson I’m about to prepare.

Joy in the donut I’m going to eat after I get back from therapy.

Joy in the book I have to read.

The dog staring up at me with big brown, curious, loving eyes.

My family.

Joy itself.

Life itself.

The options, choices to be made.

The possibility that I could work on my writing today.

 

Even though I probably won’t.

I don’t have any energy. It’s not just physical. Emotional energy. I’m out of it. I’m not certain if its depression, anxiety, or ME/CFS. Perhaps all of them at once. But I’m drained of the ability to move, motivation, energy in general. The strength to lift my limbs. The world is a murky pool of molasses, my body a thick, awkward figure of solid iron and cotton balls.

Not of desire. I’m not robbed of that. I want to create. To work on my writing. To piece together my lesson. I feel inspired.

 

What’s the point of all this blogging stuff going on here?

Is this post relevant?

Is it pointless?

Am I complaining, yammering, going on and on about myself?

Or am I connecting?

I’m not entirely certain.

 

I have these moments.

Where I’m outside of myself.

Wondering, what am I doing?

 

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The Rise

I’m tired of making sense. It’s like I’ve got to stretch to fit and it’s not working. Life doesn’t always make sense. Why should I bend over backwards, crane my neck, and break blood vessels in my eyes just to make it all appear flawless and put together? Nothing is perfect or flawless. I was right when I began; I can take all of this. Only, my definition of “this” has changed. I can take whatever I need to. And I realize what I need isn’t the world spinning. To let go is to cry from my lungs, to let my soul shiver in the darkness, the cold that seeped in. To let go is to warm with the silence seeping from inside me until I can feel it, wiping away the pain.

I said something on twitter the other day that didn’t make sense. I do that. I speak sometimes without understanding myself, where it came from, this nonsense. What I think is really happening is I’m escaping through fissures. I’m breaking and its saving my life.

“Something witty. Something lovely. Something inspiring. I don’t know. I know the silence hiding within, trying to pour out into my skin.”

“When the silence spills into my lungs, I think it’s time to hear it.”

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What Must is What Will Come

I have a lot to be thankful for.

I find that my conditioned way of seeing the world, my situations, others, and myself, is thusly:

I focus on the fear.

It’s said that everything stems from either fear or love.

This brings to mind the Chinese character for crisis. Coincidentally, I searched my blog to see if I’d spoken on it before, and what do ya know? I have. Three years ago, on Thanksgiving.

I love what this time of year does for me.

I examine myself. I remember myself.

 

Chinese character for crisis is written with two different characters. Danger and Opportunity.

The way I see life: the danger. I don’t see the opportunity. I don’t feel love, I feel fear. (I don’t mean I don’t feel love, I mean I don’t default to a place of love; serenity and peace. I default to fear; panic and misery, apprehension and doubts.)

Why I do this is no longer my main focus. I’ve picked my past apart and consistently try to see it for what it is. I’ve let go of a lot of resentment. I’m still trying to let go of the bitter cage clamped tight around my rib cage.

But I’m aware it’s there and I’m working on it. That’s the whole point. I can’t undo damage done. Even if it wasn’t my fault, the damage now belongs to me and is my responsibility to work with.

 

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More and more, I’ve been pointing out to myself the love, the opportunity.

But I find the more I work on adopting healthy outlooks and beliefs and faith – the tighter the old me clamps down on my lungs and the more misery life digs up.

So this Thanksgiving, while I struggle with anxiety, panic attacks, and a strange, subtle, and pervasive depression – I want to focus on the love. The opportunity crisis provides me. The things I’m thankful for, of which there are many.

I want to celebrate my success.

Because in some moments, I’m beginning to realize that my changing is a constant success. I may not feel it completely yet, but awareness and hope come before acceptance.

 

“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands.”

~ Richard Bach

 

This Thanksgiving, instead of feeling miserable and self-disgusted because I haven’t reached perfection – I want to focus on picking through my life in a different manner.

I want to find all the positive changes I’ve gone through and lived through and brought to life.

I want to search for all my gratitude and find reasons to be grateful for myself as well as my life outside of myself.

This Thanksgiving, I want to smile because I’ve gained, through a lot of hard work, hope that I can lean on, instead of falling back into fear.

 

I’ve gained a second job. One I like as opposed to my first job, which just wasn’t for me.

I have an amazing, understanding boss.

My family. Look at the misery we’ve survived and continue to live through. Look at our hidden strength, which I think we often times take for granted. We’re stronger than we realize. Even though right now we mainly feel hurt.

I have new friends. Souls who understand and accept me. We understand our shared struggles, even as we live separate lives.

I finished Blair’s first novel after two years of not writing. I sent out to critique partners. I’m not afraid. What must, is what will come of it.

And can I back up here? I started writing again. My passion and identity as a writer newfound and settled into my bones, my skin, the rushing of blood through my veins. I’ve made writing a priority. Because I’ve become aware of how vital, how important it is to who I am.

I have learned I have the right to say no. I haven’t quite acquired the courage in most cases, but I’m working on that.

I’ve learned that I can say yes when its truth, even if it might hurt a little at first.

I’ve learned that I exist and I have every right to exist. I don’t need to seek validation for my desire, my urge to live a life I can identity as my own.

And mistakes? I can learn from those. I do. It hurts, but I learn. Mainly, I’m learning that everyone makes them and I don’t need to make myself out to be a devil when all I did was forget that I can’t fix others.

 

My health has gotten worse and I’m just plain confused with my life.

But this pain has taught me something, is still teaching me something.

Just take it one day at a time – one hour at a time if need be, one minute at a time – breathe, and focus on hope.

Maybe my health is also improving. I feel better.

Thanksgiving is such a great reminder.

Even if I forget to remember these new healthy beliefs and behaviors, they’re still here, slowly embedding into my psyche and soul.

There is so much beauty in the world.

And what I focus on, is what I magnify in my day-to-day life.

 

 

This Thanksgiving, I challenge you to dig up all the dirt, all the memories, all the tears and smiles and indifference, spread it out, and peer through it. Find what you’re grateful for.

I’m going to attempt the very same.

 

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Me, My Muse, and I

As writers – no, as any creative type out there in this insane asylum world – I think we’re insulting ourselves when we talk about capturing and keeping a muse.

There is no muse.

There is you.

You creative.

You’re inspired, you’re helped by a Higher Power if you believe in such things (a deity, the universe, a spark of something, whatever you believe), you work hard, and enjoy it, and you write (or do whatever your brand of creativity is).

You don’t yank some robe wearing, fancy-shmancy, cocktail drinking, snobbish, childish, prudish, or sensually enslaving chick out of the ether and chain her to your desk. You don’t capture a muse. You don’t lure a muse. You don’t entice, beg to attend to you, leave food out for, sit around and wait for, write until you hope it’ll show up – a muse.

YOU put in the work.

You capture inspiration that works for you.

You find time, you find a reason, you enjoy, you feel driven – to write.

You write until you feel that magic. You write when you don’t feel it.

You do all of this.

 

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I’m not trying to offend anyone who believes in finding their muse.

I simply think we’ve taken it way too freaking far. It’s gone from metaphoric to depressing.

It’s our responsibility to create the stories in our head into something magickal, fierce, lovable. We should get the credit for putting in the work.

I think we deserve to think better of ourselves.

We don’t need to wait for someone/something out of our control to saunter on in, decide we’re worth her/his time all of sudden, and lend a hand.

 

If a muse exists, it’s you. Its inside you. I’m not talking multiple personality disorder (which by the way is now DID). I’m talking you.  If you want to use it metaphorically, go right ahead. But I’m tired of people talking like they’re not the amazingness behind their amazingness. We all draw inspiration from the world and people around us. But we’re the one dedicating time to what we’re doing.

So, if you must believe in a muse. Believe you’re your own muse.

 

I wrote this a few days ago when I entertained (for about half a day) the idea of writing one blog post a day in Rara’s November #nanopoblano. (I think I’d run out of things to talk about and probably get real boring. For some reason, I really like the idea of trying anyway.)

Anywho – afterward, I opened up “Zen in the Art of Creativity” by Ray Bradbury and started reading the next essay. Which happened to be on the ever-elusive muse.

In my opinion, his essay backs up my crazy ranting. To feed your muse is to always be hungry for life. Your muse is a collective of everything you’ve absorbed and stored. If I’m reading it correctly.

 

Meaning, your muse isn’t some creature you keep chained in the basement after you lure it and bash it over the head.

Your muse is everything which inspires you. Every breath you take in while you’re imagining. Your muse is every childlike awe. Every memory filled with angst or wonder.

Your muse is you. The hidden you. The real you. The you that screams inside your skull and heart when the fake you is speaking through a mask.

Your muse is inside you, behind your rib cage, peering out, waiting.

So stop selling yourself short.

If you want to feed your muse, figure out what you’re hungry for.

 

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