This post was inspired by this. Thanks Angela.
My mind is often a crazy thing. It takes me down some dark and convoluted turns that lead to wondrous places. It broods over calamities for so much longer than is healthy. It gets stuck, fixated on how other people feel about things because, for some reason, this is what my brain really wants to know. I don’t just want to analyse another person’s feelings, I want to feel them. Often times this is what drives my writing. But it’s also what leads to the problems in my writing. This outpouring of empathy, of feeling, can swamp the story; it wallows in it, weighed down, waterlogged.
I have no doubt, though, of how much it helps me in my job as a weight loss consultant. I know how my clients are feeling in their struggle to be free of the fat suit that weighs them down in every conceivable way. I validate but don’t excuse the behaviour that got them there. I listen and I advise and I allow them to remember what they truly deserve, because ultimately, that’s where they’re going wrong.
And then, at the end of the day, I’m tired. My brain hurts. I’m tired from feeling all these feelings that don’t belong to me. I get out my notebook and I mine these feelings, these women, these events, this current I feel under my feet, for stories. I mine. I muse. I write. And then I lie on the floor with a rolled up towel under my spine, tourmalines at my feet. I close my eyes and I focus on my breath. This is the only time of the day that I truly come home. To myself. And out of myself so that I can connect to the space around me; the bits of me that aren’t me, which go such a long way to defining who I actually am. I am part of everything, but I really only come to know that when I shut everything out. I am a sponge and I am a preacher. I am a scribe and I am a witness. I am tired and I am stimulated. In this world I am 36 years of memories and stories. Out of it my story is eternal.