Do you ever fear that if you have success you won’t be able to top it? Do you ever meet a goal and then shrink, fearing what others expect of you now?
I prayed to go viral with a post and it happened. I was so excited.
Now, I don’t know what to write. How do I keep it going?
All that pressure has me collapse into a classic artist pose.
Imagine me drinking alcohol in the a.m. with a cigarette in my mouth, my hair in curlers, wearing a robe. No one wants to exit the game as a loser.
What is the root of this problem? The shadow of the artist? The archetype of the creative who seeks fame and approval through others and then is left with unquenched emptiness in the wee hours of the morning. I think of Marilyn Monroe.
It’s the rectifying of our wounded child with the shadow artist. The little one whose art was desecrated by adults who could not see, whose songs were labeled “tone deaf” by families who could not hear. Children, me, seeking desperately to find my gift to give, to be of service, to contribute in an empty world of multiplication flash cards and spelling bees.
Where are the great, open arms that receive?
The problem is that I’ve not been encouraged to fly my freak flag and paint my art. I’ve been schooled and indoctrinated and programmed to fit in.
I yearn from the depths to outsource my soul, to make my mark, to be thoroughly used up! And yet, I hold back, withdraw, don a new mask and lock down my voice.
The solution is simple. Keep writing. Keep singing. Keep dancing. Paint my face, fly my flag, stuff my bra.
Do whatever it is that the wee child inside always wanted to do but was told it shouldn’t .
Find the edges, blur the lines, speak your piece, hold your ground.
If they call me ugly, I’ll be ugly.
I’ll take it on ‘till the fire of my heart transmutes that energy like the coiling serpent and blasts out of that skin.
I will gently seep in to the unnoticed corners, or ravage my way through hard lines.
I will follow the will of my hands until they lead me to the warm light of a friend.
March to the beat of my drum, desperately keep my ear to the earth to hear the tune that sings the songs of my heart and rattles the wisdom around in my soul, urging me ever onward to blare the truth like the beacon of our sun.
Sacred is profane, ugly is beautiful, our art is our art and it is the expression of a pumping, bleeding, red heart that aches to sing under the pressure of a thousand years of dirt covering over all that was precious.
From earth worms and the Shaman’s rite of passage, buried for three days in the depth of earth, we face the void, ceasing to exist, sucking so hard, and then we rise. We rise. We rise?
For we are spirit, fire and light and radiant sunbeams of magic and as long as I live I have something to say.
It’s time, damnit! It’s time. The horror of holding back rhythms and patterns of magnificent light and healing are ceasing to exist all around us as we remember our names!
She who is magnetic light warrior fierce as a thousand rushing rivers, hard and strong like the horse, moving, waving, blasting truth and energy and divine awakening wisdom like the sun pulsates the DNA in our core and blasts open our resonate frequencies.
How much can we rise up, show our flare, mark our space, make our name?
What do you want to do with your creative, succulent, wild Self?
I show up and release something into the wild Google jungle and see if I can meet you there.
If Rumi had a field, I have Facebook.
Tell me, can you feel me?