“The true profession of man is to find his way to himself. “ —Hermann Hesse
On March 26th 2012, my home burned to the ground in a raging wildfire that killed three of my neighbors and left twenty other families homeless. Before the fire reduced my old life to smoldering piles—despite my many years as a therapist, coach, and guide—I still secretly believed I needed to do more, be more, and achieve more. Even while I implored my clients to be gentle with themselves, I still had a serious case of “not enough-ness,” which leads to driven-ness in my work.
Even after all I had accomplished, on some deep level, it wasn’t enough. Master’s degree, yeah, that’s good and all, but, well, my school wasn’t the best…. Published author, well, OK, but I should be a New York Times bestseller…. Broken through my fears of being on stage in front of hundreds of people, done many great speaking gigs, but why do my hands still sweat? Why is it still so hard?
Blah blah and more blah! The level of acceptance I lived was light years away from the deep self-destruction of my early days, yet I still wanted to prove something and get somewhere. The lie that drove me was that an elusive place of arrival would give me the freedom I craved. One day I would get “there” and whoever was keeping score would award my prize for goodness and I could finally stop trying so hard.
Ironically, in the midst of yet another soul-awakening, I got the offer to write this book. A niggling thought surfaced from the reservoirs of my mind. How could I be writing a book on waiting when I was once again questioning my path? The fire stirred embers of questions in many areas of my life—but none perhaps as much as the area of my career. Even though I loved my work, the biggest part of my “letting go of attachments” declaration was directed at the area of career and purpose. It seemed I so quickly moved from loving what I do into trying to prove something, and craving success—which inevitably led to burnout.
So, while not having it all figured out (also known as “in the process of having pretty much no idea what’s going on”!), what is a writer and an author coach to do? Well, we must say “Yes.” As I offered up this Yes, I knew it was a Yes to the challenge. Yes to letting go of the past. Yes to reinvention. Yes to the future. Yes to the unknown. Yes to the missed deadlines and severe self-doubt. Yes to the moments of pure clarity. All these yeses would be part of my opportunity to write these words from a new place without driven-ness, a place from my passion. I would be finding my purpose again, as I found my words to write. I would have something to focus on other than my grief, yet I would be able to bring my grief into my writing in order to tell my true story. I was stretching and growing, again.
Any time we stretch ourselves, we may feel like puking much of the time. We may wonder if we are up to the task. We may question everything. Again. Really? Again? Didn’t I already resolve this? Didn’t I already master this? Ah, I see. Apparently there is still more to unravel.
And we bring all of that along for the ride. I am bringing all of it along for this ride.
The fire may have shaken my notions of career to their core, but it cemented my passion for writing. Five days after the fire I started blogging, and over a period of nine months I wrote over a hundred thousand words. This is no small task. Each morning, I would awake with thoughts bubbling over and turn to my trusty Mac. Sometimes I wrote the pain; other days I wrote about gifts I saw. I processed my way through my angst and grief and as the word count grew I built my confidence as a writer. I let the raw, unedited words come; I let my grief hang out with all its jagged edges and questions. I said things that were hard to speak aloud.
According to many great writers, no one sits down and writes brilliantly the first time. If you are a writer who does, more power to you. For the rest of us, let us take comfort in the wise words of Anne Lamott—author of many books, including many bestsellers, and a former writing instructor. When she was asked about her writing process during an interview, she replied, “There is no fantasy out there. I don’t sit down and say, it’s so great to be me. I am in the same boat as the rest of you. I sit down at the same time every day. I do it badly, and then I do it again. I have terrible self-esteem and lot of grandiosity—I carve out a small thing I am going to handle and then I do it badly…. A horrible, unreadable first draft is the way home.”
How terribly true Lamott’s words are. “But I am not creative…” was the mantra that ran through my mind as I stared at the blank paper while beginning my first book. I knew what creativity was—and I was certain I didn’t have it. Creative talent and artistic ability were reserved for other people. My parents had it: my mother as an exquisitely talented artist—her drawing from age ten of a herd of running horses that hung on our wall was a constant reminder of how I thought I should draw; my father as an art historian and a curator at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston—our frequent trips to the museum a demonstration of true art.
Each time I would put pen (or crayon) to paper, my rudimentary stick figures depressed me. The verdict: I had no talent.
In college, I studied art history. I could appreciate talent but once again it was clear I didn’t possess it. And I avoided writing anything—even thank-you notes—as I could never adequately express my thoughts on paper.
When, out of the blue, inspiration to write that first book appeared, it was an obvious dilemma for my rigid view of my absence of talent! Fortunately, by this time in my life, I had logged hours upon hours of personal development work. I knew I could “feel the fear and do it anyway.” I knew how to take action—to move forward even when every molecule in my body told me to stop. And, I knew how to ask for help. Still, here I was at a turning point. I had to transform my view of myself as an artist—and as a writer.
The only way I could do this was to write.
Some days I cried and wanted to give up; others I celebrated my courage. I wrote, rewrote, ripped it all up, and started over. I hired editors, changed directions, then changed back. I danced in the moonlight and curled up in a ball on the floor. I told everyone I was writing and then wished I hadn’t. I grew, contracted, and then grew again, stretching further than I ever thought possible.
Excerpt from What Are You Waiting For? Learn How to Rise to the Occasion of Your Life, Viva Editions, November 2013
Great read