Blossoming

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom

~Anais Nin


I love this poem. I think about it often when I am dealing with something particularly hard or painful. But as much as I love it, I don't think I fully understood what Nin meant, however, until very recently.

As most who read this blog know, I am a writer. I have been putting pen to paper my whole life, but in the last few years, it has become something of an obsession. Taking the thoughts, emotions, stories, and ideas that are swirling around in my head, and committing them to paper is sometimes painful, sometimes joyous, sometimes easy, and sometimes the hardest fight I can imagine, but always it is healing. Always I find that when I let the words come, I let the world go. I have found truth and courage and love in the lines I have written. I have found forgiveness and compassion by recording the story. I have found my way into understanding by simply letting the words flow. I cannot imagine a life that does not involve telling my story.

Since the birth of my daughter, and the concurrent demise of my marriage, I have been writing the story. Recording the details, documenting my feelings, pulling it together. For others, because my story might help another, but mostly for her, so someday she can read the story as it happened. So she knows me on a different level. So she can see that she was in every thought I had, her happiness was the center of every decision I made, her health and well-being was always in the front of my mind. I want her to know what these years have been like and understand why our life is what it is. I want her to understand that I was scared at times, that I was elated often, that I felt strong and weak, sometimes at the same time. That I made so many mistakes and did so many things perfectly. That there was a lot of laughter and love, but that tears were part of the days, too. That I don't regret the outcome and that I learned many lessons on the way. That she was wholely, fully and completely loved.

I want her to know our story.

Now the time has come for me to start putting pieces and parts of this story out into the world. I'm getting ready to send some of the writing that has come from this time in our lives out for publication, and I am shocked to realize how hard this step actually is. This realization really hit home for me the other day as I was trying to finish up the last task I have to do to get this stuff on it's way. I am sending some essays and a couple of poems as part of a compilation of women writers, and I have to include an authors portrait with it. I asked my friend Jenica to take these for me. She is a fabulous photographer, a gifted artist, and most of all, she understands that creative parts of our soul need to be nurtured and guided. She has guided and nurtured me often in the relatively short time i've known her. I trust her. I trust her judgement and I trust her vision. I feel incredibly authentic around her, and I know that the creative, authentic me will show up in her portraits.

I knew I'd be nervous, because I'm not a natural in front of a camera. I don't really like having my picture taken. I think I look weird and unnatural in photos. Jenica sensed this and was easy and gentle (as she always is) but I was not loosening up. We tried it for a while, and instead of the process getting easier, I broke down in tears.

We backed off the picture-taking and instead chatted the afternoon away. As she always does, Jenica provided insightful comments and a new way to think about things. I left her home feeling noticably calmer, but with a lot to think about. Why was I reacting this way? What about having my picture taken scared me enough to bring me to tears? Why did a photo session feel threatening, when it was being orchestrated by one of the kindest, most compassionate, most REAL women I've ever known?

Here's the realization I came to, after a lot of thought, meditation, and (yes) journal writing.

The pieces are ready to go. They are done and are only waiting on the Author portrait to send out. Taking the pics is the final touch to getting them out there. It's the last thing to do, the last box to check, and then a part of me, a part of my story, a little piece of my world is going to be on display, with my face attached to the words. This is not a small thing. It's scary. I'm inviting anyone who reads my work to know a little more about me than is necessarily comfortable. I'm opening up a part of my life that is equal parts joy and pain for public view. It's a lot to deal with. So it's ok that it's scary. I still am going to do it. I still need to do it. I still WILL do it.

Because the risk of staying tight in the bud, of not putting myself out there, of not sharing my words and my heart and my story with the world, of not offering the fruits of this talent I have been given...that scares me more than the risk I'm taking to give myself the chance to blossom.

A few days later, I still feel a little raw, a little vulnerable. I know I'm getting ready to take a step that is necessary to my personal and creative growth, but it's still going to be hard. I still need to have the portraits done...that box remains unchecked. But understanding why it scared me allows me to find ways to deal with it.

I feel cracked open, but sometimes cracking open is the only way to let in the light. And the light is neccesary for blossoming.