I don’t know if I’m a writer. I’ve never considered myself an artist. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve had a creative mode in my body. Somewhere along the way, I thought it would be a good idea to create a website. Something I had no clue how to do. It was all frontier to me. I had dabbled into the thought of blogging but was initially resistant for several reasons:
- Fear of the unknown.
- The self-perceived lack of margin in my life to create such a thing.
- The thought that I had no business writing.
- “I’m a PE Teacher and Football Coach, not a writer!” was one example of my inner dialogue.
I needed release or an outlet from the trials of the day-to-day. I was once a video gamer, where I spent countless hours living in an imaginary world that offered an escape. With a pinch of Kodiak Wintergreen, I could sink into a chair and find myself drifting away into mindlessness. It was common practice to rush through family time, work, or other life events, just to scramble to my chair for a pinch and a game. At the end of each session, an emptiness surfaced in my heart. I knew I could offer more to myself, family, & community. When I quit tobacco, collaterally, I stopped gaming. I associated one with the other. Two addictions that were not bringing life to me or others. I desperately needed to supplement the two with something else. So began my first attempt to write.
What I found, was writing tapped into an undisclosed portion of me. It was if I had arrived into a world of adventure and unknown, with an immense sense of wonder and exploration. I’ve realized I want more of this world. Writing has helped me to see how art uses its power on the human soul. It plays a formidable role, where it nourishes the mind and body.
For years I was required to write research papers or book reports that were a bore. I approached each of those assignments as a roadblock to a certificate or diploma. I quickly rushed through each of them and found little value in their so-called benefit to personal development. I was jumping through hoops and performing grunt work. The writing was not from the heart and certainly not from a place of passion or zeal. When I began to write for me, not by assignment, the breath of life began to circulate through me. I came alive in a way that I had not experienced. I was able to start downloading and releasing internal thought compilations that had accumulated over the decades. It had allowed me to renovate my mind and rid of clutter.
I’m just scratching the surface of putting thoughts to paper. I attempt to access my creative process every day. Either I open up my OneNote app to jot down notes or sit at my library computer and piece paragraphs together. I have begun to embrace creation and know that each writing session, no matter how large or small, may not birth a masterpiece. The idea is to put in the work. There will be days when I feel like an artist and days when I’m lucky to get a sentence down. The symbolism of life here is very compelling to me. It allows me to approach difficult days with more ease, where I know good days are to follow.
I must resist the temptation to name what I’m creating or map the direction I’m heading. New York Times bestselling author Rob Bell says, “Just enjoy the fact that you get to do this.” I try not to complicate my version of art by placing it in a box with a label. At this moment, I yearn to keep going.
Also, I want to give a special thanks to Andrew Neel for the feature photo.
Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash
