I sneak into the living room to cry.
I’m playing hostess to my sister and fear breaking down in front of her. I worry she’ll perceive this burst of overwhelm as a reaction to word said or a moment misunderstood or a case of bad guacamole during her taco-feasting, coffee-shop-hopping, improv-applauding gift of a visit.
I melt into a terrified mess when I cry.
And this is my mess. My mess of creative insecurities shrieking to be released.
This is not about my sister.
This is not even about the boy (because so many eye-rolling times the surface upset is linked to a deeper emotion spinning around a boy).
But it’s not about the boy…it’s far worse than the boy. The boy I could handle. This teetering on hysterical unraveling…this is all about my writing.
And in this heart-beating moment of my life, here’s the startling truth: my writing is fiercely important to me.
I strive to protect, nurture, and honor my writing.
I create pockets of guarded space to write. I am a horrid bear if I am interrupted and distracted (Ryan Gosling could interrupt up me at a coffee shop and I would be perturbed and instantly uninterested, because a man who doesn’t respect my creative time, will not understand me).
I feel enlivened when I write and sublimely complete when I finish a piece.
I read to nourish and engage my muse. I listen to be inspired. I surround myself with the arts, with artistic people to be stimulated, dared, encouraged. I live attentively to immerse myself into the fabric of the everyday story, and connect the pieces, locate the themes, find the meaning through writing.
Writing is a life-force pumping purpose into my life. And I have taken such careful care, too careful, to keep my writing very close to me, but the creative roars for freedom, visibility, play, and borders and constrictions suppress a life-giving energy, a stagnation that yellows existence.
For years, fear shied me away from claiming myself as a writer, but tonight, I seize my creative power. I launch an Instagram account solely for the purpose of sharing my pops of prose and impromptu poetry, and “writer” is in the title.
AND BAM!
All the dormant fears of judgment, rejection, and a quietly nursed imposter syndrome sizzle and snap.
And so I flee to a dark living room with yoga mat in hand, and leave the lights off as I unroll this island of sacred space, curl into a child’s pose, and I cry.
I am in the throes of vulnerability. I am petrified, and suddenly, horribly lonely.
And yet, my loving wisdom knows this is normal.
The gentle witness, the higher self, the compassionate goddess that dwells within, understands that terror and thrill toward creative expansion exist within the same breath.
I’m leaping. I’m growing. I’m expanding.
This is the creative cry to signal a release, a stretching into discomfort which will become comfortable in time, and then there will be another dare, another leap, because we long and are designed to continually evolve.
Even with the fear, there’s still the core knowing that soothes and affirms that this is the right inspired step in the writing journey.
The abandoned crying does not lessen my fear, but the surrender allows me to sleep, and wake calmer and not refreshed, but a little stronger in my commitment to proceed.
So, I leap. I post. I share.
And in the leaping, there is love.
The unconditional love emanating from a circle of luminous cheerleaders rallying only for the rise, the healing, the deepening. And these light-beings exude and exclaim praise from all chapters and corners of my life. Their lifting up, their high-fiving and sparkly heart emoji responses spark thanks for this tribe, and strengthen my commitment to embrace only in love the creative endeavors and big breath steps of others.
And loving me through the leap, loving me through and despite the creative cry, is my sister, Julie.
Julie beams an encouragement that is rare in its genuine purity, and she ushers in to assist with all my tech questions and is quick to be emotional support.
I do cry later in her trip.
I still make every best attempt for her to not see me in tears. I pack up her cereals for a road trip to San Antonio and give her a squeeze goodbye, and turn away before the tears threaten eyeliner and trigger a downpour to which we both may not fully recover.
I place on pink neon sunglasses and embrace a sadness that is pure in its reasoning: I love my sister and will miss her.
And then she’s back to rescue an almost forgotten toothbrush, and she dares me to insta post soon.
So, I rush off to write, to journal into the grief and channel her belief into fresh words rinsed from a good cry and are now ready to be seen.
(And if you feel intrigued, you can follow my musings on Instagram, meredithkingsleywriter. See you here, or there, or both! Peace!)