Many have spoken this truth: we search outside ourselves for what can only be found within. Over the last several weeks, I’ve come across books on art and creativity recommended by people who write the blogs/newsletters/books I read. Most of these I’ve found at the library. I use sticky notes to mark sentences and paragraphs that I like. I type out the notes, print out the document, file the paper(s), and return the book to the library. I ask myself if, or when, will I reach into the file folder and reread my notes. Do the written exercises. Answer the journal questions. And I realize that I don’t know.
The passages I mark I consider nuggets of information. The author wrote something that I haven’t heard before or that speaks to me, perhaps answers the question I’ve carried with me for too long. I know there is an answer closer than these titles I borrow (or buy if the library doesn’t carry them). But I dutifully turn the pages (skipping sections and chapters after a skim if I don’t find something that addresses my inquiry), place the sticky notes, do the typing, etc. After several titles, I’m coming to the end of that list.
I don’t remember the date, but I remember the brief conversation. I suppose everyone remembers a break up. A relationship that was nurtured, trust that was built, a routine that was reliable and yielded wanted results coming to an end. I’ve survived several break ups before this one. Writer’s groups that dissolved. Writing friends that got married and stopped writing. Others returned to corporate jobs, setting aside their creativity. I had one remaining support. We lasted through the pandemic. One day, the remaining author I knew told me she was done. Not only was she done writing, she didn’t want to talk to me about or hear what I was doing as I continued forward on my path when she chose to step off hers.
I’ve done so much mindset work I feel like I could write my own book on the topic. I’ve attended conferences and summits. I joined a local chapter of a national organization. I’ve read books and scoured the internet for answers. This week, the little whisper that has been there the whole time but I’ve been too busy looking elsewhere to hear it or pay it any attention, broke through as I closed yet another book with stickies poking out from the pages. I’ve heard the whispered words before (“Pick up your pen and write. Just start, then keep going.”). The whisper is closer than the sources I’ve collected since the break up. In this case, the answer did come from within.
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