Friday, February 12, 2016

Edit




Edit.
To take away.
That's a truly terrify, courageous act.
Before I can walk a minute into the future I have to decide what's coming with me.
Ever looked at a blank page? I mean, really looked? It's empty. That's a tomorrow. My tomorrow. Yours.

Here's the catch.
As soon as I walk into that page I will bring every place I have ever been and everything I have ever seen, said, done, regretted, grieved over, bleed from. I will bring ME. So I fill the page before even breathing a second of this new day.

New things require space. SPACE. I only get space by making it. And since I've discovered that I bring me to every new day, clearly some thoughts, beliefs or actions will have to change or leave entirely.
That's editing.
And it's enough to make me cry.

See I know I'm going to be in that awful half way place. I've removed something, but I'm not sure yet what to replace it with.

And here comes my fear.

What if I don't know what to fill the space with? What if I do know, but I can't do it? Or I try and fail?

Sure I can go back to the way things were, but then every day will look like my yesterday. And then I'm going no where and creating no thing, achieving no goal and never changing. In short, for a writer, I have no new book.

So I think perhaps I do it afraid. I edit anyway. I fail. I try again. I sit there. Face the empty page. Face the full pages and delete what needs to be deleted. I refuse to fill each day with the same crap I brought to it yesterday. And try better. Fail again. Edit again. And again. And again.

And oneday I realise that my tomorrow looks different. It was made up of the sum of all my edits. And maybe I have a book I'm proud of.  One that has benefitted from my failing and learning and trying again.
An edit. Maybe not perfect. But at least a life that is written on a new page with new words. A world that is not the same as it was before.








Friday, February 5, 2016

You're Enough

“We can’t hate ourselves into a version of ourselves we can love.” ~Lori Deschene

You are enough. All of you. The parts you like. The parts you don't. The gifts you have. Those you never will. When waves land on beaches and you decide you should be the ocean. When you are the ocean, but decide you should be the mountains. All of it. You are enough.

You are enough. The stories you breathe. All the ones you don't or haven't or perhaps never will. All the ones you can't, because sometimes there isn't breath and just because. All of it. You are enough.

You are enough. All the things you want, but haven't dared, haven't spoken, or worse, have spoken and someone laughed. The wants you're flippant about, when really you're not. The wants you hold inside so hard, wants caged behind your ribs. All of it. You are enough.

You are enough. When people arrive. When people leave. When others don't get you. When they do. When people walk out, walk in or walk through you. When people leave gaping holes. Especially then. Still.
You are enough.


Because maybe you don't need to hear it. Maybe you do.
I know I do.
So I simply wanted to say.
Tab, you are enough.

Friday, January 29, 2016

When a writer cannot ballet.



Don't laugh. But ballet scares me. True.

This Thursday night for the first time I took an adult ballet class at our local ballet school. And I discovered something. I cannot ballet. Nope. Not at all. My feet don't like first position much less third or, God help me, forth. I can't spin. Yes, I know there's a french name for spinning in ballet. No, I don't remember what. I was too busy falling down. And you know what, that wasn't okay with me.

I realised that I not only wanted to ballet, I wanted to ballet well, the FIRST TIME. I did not want to go through all the failing. And what happened in class is that I didn't try very well. I was too busy worrying that I was going to fail, instead of expecting I was going to fail and moving on.

But the real problem? It's not failing. It's what failing screams at me. It says, "You suck."
Failure becomes a global statement about me. Instead of failing being an event that I can actually move past and learn from, it becomes a label I can't stand to wear. Suddenly I'm not just failing at doing something but I AM a failure. No wonder I'm not free to try. No wonder I'm holding back and shrinking.

And worse, this thinking follows me from ballet, to my writing, to my mothering, to my... EVERYTHING.

Well, no more. I've redefined failure as being likely, necessary and apart of learning. I am not what I do. Or even what I fail to do. I am me. A beginning ballet dancer who is now going to have a marvellous time thumping around the room and falling on the floor. I'm going to enjoy the process of becoming.

What about you?