Punctuate
Writing is a courageous act. So is speaking, and many other acts, which we insert our whole selves. Let me restate then: it is this act of insertion that calls for courage. It is an exercise of our own powers and vulnerability, in letting the wholeness of us be expressed and known.
When I began practicing being present and standing in my authority, more fear accompanied. It was puzzling—since when did I carry this much fear in me? As my veils were rent, I was made aware of the weight and power my words (potentially) held, and I became more intentional with my expressions. For some time, I deliberated between being frivolous and serious, trying to strike that perfect mean. My mind, in its efforts to support my desire, had placed guard rails on what was allowed and not allowed. Then, I gradually learned to let my heart speak, and, over time, more and more, express myself from an aligned position. When our centers (of intelligence) are aligned, truth flows with ease. For me, in writing more than in speech.
But it will come. I trust what happened for me with writing will happen with speaking too.
The journey to wholeness is one of reclamation and integration of the parts of us that we had believed to be dangerous and undesired. To show up again with any part that once got us into trouble will indubitably sound the alarm within. We do not dismiss it, and we do not let that deter us. A similar experience may happen again, or it may not. Above all, you are worth taking a chance.
Start with your trusted ones. Ideally, one of them would be yourself.
My writing style has been reflected to be economical and efficient, and to some extent, essential. I choose my words, packing a lot in each line. There are many layers to how I employ and arrange my words. But this is not some sort of writer’s language game. I used to dread learning vocabulary in school; it was the section I scored the lowest in. We were taught to use “big” words to add flair to our writing. I found neither joy nor depth in those empty vessels. Writing again after two decades, I am grateful the language did not give up on me. The fitting words found their way onto the page when I brought sincerity to writing. I highly regard precision. In my early days of writing, I read from Mary Oliver’s poetry handbook that good writing lies in the attention to details and the ability to express it as authentically as possible. It is my good fortune to have come by that advice. On days when my ether is overcast with doubts, I return to this advice and reconnect with my devotion to writing that emerges from intimacy and immediacy.
The act of writing is demanding. It asks for as much as you are willing to give yourself over to it. If you allow, it will draw what it needs out from you. More than courage, writing demands your guts too. Serve with your whole body and soul. There comes a point when you are no longer writing the words. Rather, the words write you. The experience of being shaped by words you do not feel agency over is both vulnerable and exhilarating. Yet, you find yourself surrendering to the indisputable authenticity that lands back on you.
The fresh lined page rests on the table. It has no expectation, yet like a mirror, it is ever-ready to reveal the world of you to you. During my early days engaging with the practice of writing, my right hand would tremble while hovering over the top left corner of the page as my mind weighed the odds between conducting a tragedy and a comedy. So much hinged on that first word my pen would penetrate the virgin page with. The more beautiful or expensive my notebook was, the more I shook. I was afraid of defiling the pristine with my ‘less-than’ penmanship and thoughts. Even before I wrote, I had deemed myself unworthy of my dream of writing.
All that seems melodramatic, doesn’t it?
It can be clean and clear. This is a blank page. I pick up my pen, I put down whatever word comes, and just follow along. This is how I write now. And the quality of my penmanship and my thoughts have markedly improved from when I first began. But I could not have gotten here without wrestling and working with my historical patterns. The page can be an arena, a skating rink, a lake to you, depending on how you move on and with it, and how you will be with yourself. Our ego loves drama, it is how it affirms its sense of self. But I will not digress. Today’s note is not about the ego.
Darling, let yourself write everything. Let yourself learn to trust you with you.
Pour out that drama on your book. Let it bleed. Nobody needs to see what you have written. Nobody but you. Do not hide from yourself. Do not censor or cancel yourself. Get naked and messy with yourself. Stand by yourself. Moments will arise when your soul will itch to create—after that deluge—and write something fresh. Wait, and protect those windows when they open. Then, sit back, and behold the contours of your landscape, from the barren to the bountiful. Feel yourself squirm or panic. Let yourself be touched and tickled, and be moved into a new becoming. Come to discover that you are not merely stuck in quick sand, but there may be a tundra, a tropical rainforest, a mountain range, and more. The world is in you.
Yes, our words have power, as much as we are willing to give them. Let yourself be amazed by your power to author you. You can be anything on the page, and everything you allow yourself to be.
So, punctuate. Put an end to your antics and excuses, and begin with your whole self forward.
🍯 The Dandelion Notes ~ Writer’s Fund
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Hello & welcome — I am glad you are here. I am Rosslyn Chay, healer, poet, speaker—each of these, a very human attempt to mend our fractured relationship with our nature and free the truth of who we are from the weight of our history. The Dandelion Notes are field notes on my attempts.