I am not the most social person. If you’ve ever been in my close circle, you may have taken my lack of consistent connection with you personally. And I can’t blame anyone for that. I also can’t blame myself. Most social interactions drain me. Some may call me a loner, but that wouldn’t be accurate. I have friends and have had many over the years.
As a kid, I found comfort in my daydreams. They were vibrant, thorough. My inner world was an amazing and fulfilling place. When you spend a lot of time in another world, psychologists call it a “trauma symptom.” They say, preferring your fantasy world to a real one is “maladaptive.” I don’t agree. It’s not so clear-cut.
I have connected to other realms from a young age. To some that is fantasy. To me it’s both my immense imagination as well as experiencing other dimensions (including spirit realm). This is what informs my personal healing, my intuitive work with others. And it also fuels my creative writing.
The more I reject this part of me, the less creative I feel, the more stagnant my energy. The less I am me. Yet, there are actualities and responsibilities. And so I morph and adapt. I adapt and morph. Somewhere in all of this, my truth sinks into murky waters. And so do the stories.
I turned 43 this year. Age is not an indication of how close we are to fully living our truth. It does bring with it, at least for me, a certain ease with who I am. It’s no longer about flaws or about getting it right. It isn’t about lacking or striving for better. It’s about the peace within. Everything else, ebbs and flows. Growth is eternal.
I have picked up a novel that I put on hold indefinitely. I began writing it 11 years ago. I had a mentorship with the great Nalo Hopkinson. There was much promise for this story. I wrote one third of it. And I stopped. It wasn’t its time. Or, rather, it wasn’t my time. What a story though. I even had sketched visuals of my settings and characters. It was a world I was excited to be in, to explore. And it waited for me to come back.
The ebbs and flows continue. The murkiness doesn’t last forever. What remains a constant is (our) truth. And the stories we want to tell.
Leave a Reply