Release the urge to get it right Perfection is the joy destroyer. Release the desire to sound eloquent To have the right words delivered At the exact moment. Release and trust that I will receive What I’m meant to. There is no end goal No finish line No final product. We are all works in progress And there is always room for more: More edits, for rewrites, to rehashing And then what’s left? Hacked up, tattered words Left on the page. Torn fragments. Might as well make confetti And see where the words land. That would show perfection. I don’t have to do it right Or get it right. There is no finish line where I suddenly become who I’m meant to be. I am her now. I embrace and embody her now. There is no “there” to get to. I am the joy, the connection, The creator. I am the words that you see, The sounds that you hear. They are all a part of me And a part of you too. Where does creativity come from? The seed of the soul is my guess. What seeds are you going to plant today? What nourishment does your soul desire? What would you like to plant? Place them in your palm And touch the earth. You are forever supported And nourished.
Time to pursue my creativity; Too many distractions and obligations That eat away my energy. And then when it's a good time to do the one thing I most want to do, I put it off, yet again. In the moment, Dusting the shelf just seems easier than writing. Just when I’m getting myself Motivated to start, There’s always one more thing to do. And that seems to take priority Over my creative pursuit. What’s missing? Time to connect to myself and others. A sense that there isn’t enough time; That I could or should be doing more. Although, how can that possibly be true? What ifs, coulds and shoulds are easy to be explain and defend When there’s no evidence to the contrary. And it takes me further away From my desires, my dreams. Even though I know the reasons are untrue That I can prioritize myself, My creativity, My movement, And the momentum gets started again. Everything ebbs and flows. Energy and time. Winter is the season of quiet reflection Of taking stock And not regret for what never was And couldn't ever be.