Endorse yourself

It is nobody else’s job
to approve of you,
to like what you make,
or endorse your way of being.

Never was.

So who are you waiting for, sweet pea?

What are you postponing until
the right words spring
from the right mouth?

Screw it.

Set your own thermostat,
and bask in the flames.

The whisper (a shame reframe)

Uh oh.

You did it again. Or not. Again.

Did it wrong. Did it late. Didn’t.

Our human shame is swiftly triggered and deeply wired.

Primal. Ancient.

And while it might sometimes be useful in an evolutionary, survival-of-species sense, the amplification of such discomfort is of little help much of the time.

How about this, darling monkey: What if you received the pinch as a simple whisper?

A whisper that loves you dearly, and wishes you well.

A whisper to call in support, perhaps. From within or elsewhere.

A gentle reminder that there is yet more goodness in you.

A curious wiggle in the direction of your bestness.

Just a whisper.

Not of doom, but of possibility.

How about that?

Is it possible to be too generous?

Nope.

Being ‘too generous’ means being taken advantage of, yes?

And that can only happen if we’re attached to a particular outcome.

And if we’re attached to a particular outcome, we’re not being generous – we’re being manipulative.

We can’t be too generous, if generous is what we’re really being.

So when you give – if you give – let it be with both hands.

Generosity doesn’t have one fist clenched behind its back.

Turns out you’re authentic already.

You don’t need to attain, improve, practice,¬†win at, pay for, or be taught authenticity.

It was yours before, it’s yours now, and it always will be yours.

Relax, my love. You have no one else to be.

Creative panic and the impossible, inevitable pointlessness of things

Creative panic: the moment at which whatever you’ve been working on – no matter how enamored you were just a moment before – suddenly appears to be pointless crap. Again. Oh gawd. Not again.

While artists might be especially sensitive to the drama of making, it is not ours, and we are not alone in it.

The drive to continue to make and do, despite the impossible, inevitable pointlessness of it all, is the thread that connects all human experience.

Creative panic is just a flat tyre on the tractor, a hammer blow to the thumb, a bucket of water spilling onto your freshly cleaned floor.

The tyre can be fixed. The thumb heals. The water is mopped up all over again.

It’s no big deal, really. Just part of the job.

And so I offer you this, in lieu of comfort:

Of course it’s pointless, sweetheart. That’s the point.

Pick up your pencil anyway.