Taking My Own Advice, Poet's Edition
I have this piece of paper that has travelled with me for years. I have somehow kept it safe through multiple moves and life transitions. It now hangs on my whiteboard in my room. It's a quote that has stayed with me since I read it years ago, though it seems to be anonymous and I can't pinpoint it to any one person or origin.
The scrap of paper simply says in my own writing “I write because it makes me feel like someone's listening, or am I finally listening to myself?”
Well I had the interesting experience this week of needing to take my own advice. My very own words designed to comfort others going through a difficult time, suddenly very much resonated with me. I was the teacher and the student all at once and it was quite strange.
A few months ago I wrote a poem called “Lessons for a Sprained Heart”
At the time of writing this poem, I had actually just sprained my ankle quite badly when I was out trying to walk my dog and do some much needed self-care.
I just rolled over and down I went. I was devastated, but my heart and soul actually hurt more than my ankle. I felt embarrassed and defeated and like this was just one too many difficult things that had come my way lately, but I found this hard to express to those around me… So instead, I wrote about it and these words just poured out to become something actually quite universal.
Fast forward a few months to yesterday. I found myself in the grips of quite a bad mental health day. Not uncommon for me but difficult all the same. No matter what I did, the depression cloud followed me around and everything just felt heavy and hard.
On these kinds of days, I am my own worst enemy in a way because self-compassion just seems to evaporate into thin air and my restless, overactive brain just ends up exhausting itself more with statements like “why can't I just…?”, and plenty of failure talk.
But this kind of treatment of myself ultimately becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. How can I expect to freely create anything if there is all that noise around?
So yesterday, I fled my house and went up to our rooftop garden. I decided I would just look through some photos and see what happens. Additional benefits also included getting some sun on my skin and being slightly more connected with nature.
Please don't get me wrong, it was still rough. I found myself distracted by my phone… many, many, many times, to the point where I put it on aeroplane mode and made a deal with myself that I could only touch it to adjust my music.
But, as I sat up there alone, I felt the pressures of time and my own harsh expectations of myself peel away. In the solitude, I could tune out the noise and reconnect with my art.
Then something surprising happened. I cleared my photos to the side and picked up my pen and began writing. Here is what came out:
Brute Force
Forgive me for
When I've approached this life
With the brute force
Of a million fists
For the times when the desperation
For a false sense of control persists
The goal posts continue to shift
And my soul and my heart twist
I apologise to myself
For getting lost in the storm
For losing track of the rising magma
For not letting the volcano hiss
I'm sorry for
The exhausting eruptions
And the devastation that remains
Where everything just feels amiss
I own this pain
I hold the brute force ashes
Between my weary, gentle hands
Shaking with an anger
I know does not belong in me
It needs a better way to be set free
That's the problem though
A “brute force” approach to life
Often runs soul deep
The layers themselves weep
As I try to understand
Why words like expectation,
performance, success, even rest
Make me want to dig myself a hole
In which to retreat
There will always be
More parts to explore
But, maybe, it's time
To do a bit less
I know now brute force exhaustion
Isn't necessarily for the best
I believe with every apology
Should follow an actionable step
An apology with depth
Needs a new promise to be kept
So today
My promise to myself is this
I actively choose to look away
From perfectionism's gaze
And to not lose my gentleness
In the busyness of my days
I choose to be deliberate with my time
And to try my best to be kind
Not just kind to others
But also to myself
I will compassionately carry
The cards I've been dealt
Remember that feelings
Are the best teachers
When they are actually fully felt
I choose to loosen my grip
On my flawed interpretations of
Success, progress and wealth
I owe it to my inner child
To be brave enough
To drop my worldly disguise
Slow down and take the time
To see things through her eyes
Latch onto childlike curiosity
To feel all the colours around me
And to do my best to make sure
It's not me that's feeding me
The hurting lies
Sure, “full pelt” living
Can sometimes work in bursts
But in the deserts in between
I thirst
Exhaustion does not look good on me
So, from today,
The easy, misplaced rage can wait
I'm off to find something
To fill my joy cup back up
To quench my thirsty brain
With new ideas
Fresh perspectives
I will sit with the uncomfy silence
Be reflective
I will hold plans lightly
And listen out for the whispers of wisdom
Hidden between the grains of desert sand
There's no one to blame
We are all just humans, one in the same
And right there in this simpler place, I'll find
A much sweeter, less brutal reframe.
I guess the lessons for myself from this are: I just have to start somewhere, no matter how stuck I might feel. And that beautiful things can happen once the pressure is turned down, the weight of expectation is lifted and I can hear my true self again.
May you have a creative experience soon where, whatever worldly pressures you personally encounter, can quieten down. I hope you can hear your own creative wisdom again. Trust me, we all have it hiding somewhere.