HONING THE CRAFT
A Tale of Seduction and Intense Encounters
2020
What does it mean to be a writer? What does the practice entail? And why would anyone step onto this treacherous “road of trials,”[1] a road riddled with uncertainty and exertion that may never bring fruit?
I wonder about these questions on this dry, sunny and very quiet Sunday afternoon. It’s been like this since I returned to Poland from Newcastle two weeks ago. I hear birds and the occasional dog bark. Rarely do I hear my neighbors. Everyone, including me, has been inside for the nationwide coronavirus lockdown.
Holding a cup of tea, I wonder what it would be like if the pandemic never happened and university lectures were still in session. Life would be different. More active, to be sure. I’ve always liked bathing in the energy of a collective thought cloud. Spending time with other writers inspired ideas with less effort. Entering the “creative ferment,” as the producer Eric McDougall called it,[2] was one of the reasons why I decided to pursue my MA degree in Newcastle. Others included fostering stronger discipline and committing deeper to my writing practice. But most important, writing was the path that I chose to lead me out of the mundane and towards the subtle realm of my dreams.
The lockdown makes me feel emptier and dryer inside. Much like this unusual April weather we’re having. I put down my cup of tea and recline on the sofa. The global situation has created a catatonic atmosphere that invades my space. I’m tired even though I’ve barely done any work today. Or yesterday. My eyes find the ceiling—the desert-scape of my loft, my home’s blank page—and I slide into reflection.
It’s been twenty-two years since I stepped onto this road with the aim to turn my eclectic ideas into cohesive stories. And while I did learn how to write better, I also learned that pursuing a single objective over a period of time can offer more than a bigger toolbox. It can provide constancy in a changing world and bring us closer to authenticity and fulfillment by generating deeper encounters with the self.
Don’t be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others.
Unfold your own myth.
—Rumi
1998
It started with music. On a lazy summer day, my sister and I took a stroll through Capitola. The tiny resort town was not too far from Santa Cruz where she and I rented a room. After a little window shopping, we popped into a small Italian café to cool off with ice coffee. Just as we sat down, three young men with long hair began setting up their musical gear. We ordered a cake to stay longer and listen.
Their compositions were humid and lush, flooding the place with an atmosphere of magic. Music has always stirred my imagination. It’s no secret that soundscapes and creativity are linked. When we listen to the tunes we like, the brain secretes dopamine, which causes emotional arousal.[3] So when the trio in the Capitola café began their melodic odyssey, I floated away with them. And just like that, dancing in the aural field, my daydreaming mind conjured up spaces to explore and characters that had names and things to do.
More than two decades later, I came across the following passage by Carol Lloyd: “Before you can create anything—a film, a dance, a sculpture, a life—you must allow your vision of it to grow into something clear and vivid and, above all, seductive.”[4] This is exactly what happened to me that afternoon—I was seduced into a story that crystallized inside my mind.
The girl’s name was Shira. She came to the Palace the night before. She didn’t know where she was or why she was there. All she knew was that the moist climate of this country softened her skin and lulled her tired mind. Shira walked through a shaded labyrinthine corridor. The surrounding jungle pushed inside through openings in trellises while small camera lenses like bug eyes scrutinized her every move…
So I had an idea… Now what? I moved from Poland to California only a year ago. My English vocabulary was still scant and I had no concept of what it would take to write a story with a beginning, middle and end. The idea of ever committing my vision to a novel seemed impossible. But a seed had been planted. For the time being, I stored it in the cool cavern of my mind where it would await its proper season.
2020
While my eyes continue to rest on the ceiling, my mind keeps racing. The truth is that twenty-two years ago I saw the face of fear. I was afraid to tell this story because it would expose thoughts that I wasn’t ready to share. I was also afraid of doing a bad job because I didn’t yet know how to write a full story. I didn’t know about character arcs or story structure. But most important, I was afraid that I would fail and so I didn’t even start.
“Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us where we have to go,”[5] writes Steven Pressfield in The War of Art that sits on a table next to me. But since I didn’t have his words to propel me on my way, I let fear suppress my initial impulse. But there was more. Any trace of courage that I may have felt that day was further overshadowed by a belief that I was too young to write. As an 18-year-old, I told myself that I was not in a place to share anything of substance. The puzzle of my life still lacked critical pieces.
As writers we face many obstacles to what seems like such a straightforward activity. Place your fingers on the keyboard. Or easier—put the pen to paper. “(Feel fortunate—for very little money you are in business!),” writes Natalie Goldberg.[6] But the whole affair is so much more complicated. We invent reasons—few real, most false—that keep getting in the way of spontaneously expressing the mystery that stirs within us. We resist the pull by arguing with ourselves why now is not the time and postpone the task ad-infinitum. We become kings and queens of procrastination. Until a critical moment arrives and we can no longer ignore the call.
The cave you fear to enter
holds the treasure you seek.
—Joseph Campbell
2005
Chapter two of my writer’s tale started with a book about aliens. No, not science-fiction. It was purportedly, the story of human origins. I took the book off a friend’s shelf while visiting his cottage in Mendocino, with a silent promise to return it once I’m done reading. The story drew me in. I read the book in the bathroom and under the desk in my cubicle. I took it with me to the gym where I multitasked sweating on the Step Master while keeping up with the Parthenon of Sumerian gods, goddesses and their extraterrestrial posse.
The book told a story of a dynasty that many thousands of years ago brought its rule to planet Earth. Their saga was full of conspiracy and intrigue not unlike our primetime television dramas. My hands warmed the book and fingers softened its pages; pencil dots littered the margins, as to not mark it too much. The real world paled while my imaginary one caught fire. It was so much more interesting to invent a romance between a demigod and a human in 40,000 BC than schedule interviews between job candidates and human resources.
My saving grace were my lunch walks around the concrete office campus in South San Francisco, which I had turned into self-coaching sessions. If I had enough money to not have to work another day in my life, what would I do with my time? The answer was as clear as the cloudless sky--I’d write stories. What sort of stories? To answer, I needed to sit down on the curb. The hot sun and the idea that suddenly possessed me made me dizzy.
But how are you going to write THAT?
I don’t know.
It’s like inventing a new mythology!
I know.
Once more, the idea seemed impossible. But at least I could no longer tell myself that I couldn’t write. While in college, I had penned two dozen articles that were published in the student paper. One even won an award. But what made me most driven was noticing how differently I felt when I thought of writing for a living and climbing that “impossible” summit versus climbing the corporate ladder until retirement.
The creative peak lasted two weeks. This time I held tighter to the Muse’s coattails. I began writing Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages and bought a few books on starting over in the creative field. To nourish my antediluvian thirst, I printed photographs of cave paintings at Lascaux and re-read Plato’s references to Atlantis. The world gained more depth. Colors became more vivid. Slowly, I was constructing a bridge out of my cubicle and into the stars.
2020
When you become inspired, it’s like you’re possessed. In the words of Alice Walker, “There is just something that never goes away. It is always with me no matter what I’m doing; I literally cannot lose it.”[7] I agree. The idea is like a tune that keeps playing in your mind. It follows you everywhere, vibrating the atoms around you, intensifying colors, softening edges. It’s like being taken over by something powerful and unspeakable that needs you to find words for. It makes your lips and bones quiver. Everything’s abuzz and life’s chaos clicks into a semblance of order. Wind becomes a lover’s touch and thunder an explosion in the core of your soul.
Just like for the timeless hero in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the journey always entails trials, tests and tribulations. But there’s also something else—a counter-force. “The hero is covertly aided by the advice, amulets and secret agents of the supernatural helper,”[8] he writes. It’s as if something wants you to go on. It waits for you to say yes. And when you do, the whole world rushes in to help. The right books start falling into your hands, the right people speak at the right time, their words hinting at what to do next.
2010-2015
It took five more years to begin writing my first novel and four more to finish it. Tama Kieves’ words spurred me into action. In her book, This Time I Dance, Kieves rings the motivation bell. “Your dreams want to come true,” she writes. “They call you to let go of fear and step into your real life—a life that’s lush with meaning, freedom and the dance of a lifetime.”[9] For someone who was starting to feel hopeless about ever finding fulfillment in her day job, this was exactly what I needed to hear.
The first baby’s name was Moonchild. To finish the manuscript, I moaned and bled. But I also thrived. Between nine and six, Monday through Friday I sleepwalked through life. But at 6 am and after 8 pm, I lived in a dream I didn’t want to leave.
It took a lot of will and effort to switch between creating and earning. But holding the self-published book in my hands made it all worth it. As did realizing that I could do it. I could carry a project like this to the end. This was a significant breakthrough, like crossing a threshold or winning a marathon.
For a period of time, I was able to keep my Silicon Valley job and still write. But I was exhausted and didn’t feel like I fully belonged to the business world nor the writer’s world. I felt split inside. My corporate career stalled but I didn’t have enough faith or means to abandon my only source of financial security. To compensate, I signed up for as many writer’s workshops as I could and purchased a few pairs of shoes.
*
It was a fragment of a tune… Barely a melody. I caught it walking from a café, holding four lattes in a tray. By the time I entered the office, I was back in the jungle with Shira’s spirit in full possession of me. The world came alive once more. My office became the Palace. My goal was no longer to make my boss happy but to navigate the rules of the contest I was constructing, fall in love, and win.
It came as no surprise when a few weeks later my manager called me into his office and told me that my job was on the line. There was no point to argue so I handed in my resignation.
Standing on the edge of a cliff in Santorini a month later, I looked at the smooth surface of the deep blue sea nine-hundred feet below me. The sea was hiding a treasure trove of myths and secrets waiting to be harvested. I felt a familiar tug of seduction. I was not yet in a place where I could afford to devote myself fully to writing but I realized something important. My heart had left management. It belonged here, where the treasures laid.
2020
The Muse had to wait a long time to receive my full yes. Well, almost full. Knowing me, the final step on my road of trials just had to include earning a degree to seal the deal and chase away lingering self-doubts. It’s been a long trek. In the beginning it seemed so straight forward. Expand your vocab. Write proper sentences (not so long, for goodness sake). Master story structure. Get some life experience. Get a grip.
But life (and people) are so much more complicated than a neat prescription. What started as a seductive idea that wouldn’t go away, unfolded into a long journey of intense encounters.
your body
is a museum
of natural disasters
can you grasp how
stunning that is
—Rupi Kaur
2019
What does it mean to be a professional writer? The question chills me. Will I ever be ready? Will I ever live up to the expectation this question imposes?
I like Clarice Lispector’s answer. “I insist on not being a professional,” she said in the only interview she ever gave. “I only write when I want to. I’m an amateur and insist on staying that way.”[10] But is this a stance that I could afford?
My journey has led me to scale down my business and moving it online. I’ve gained long stretches of time that I could devote to writing. But I’m not doing it as much as I should.
Why not?
On the large table rests a dog-eared book; its words echo in my mind. “The amateur plays for fun. The professional plays for keeps.”[11] I lean over the 2000-piece puzzle of Cinque Terre I’ve been putting together since Christmas. I return to it when I’m lost and confused. “To the amateur, the game is his avocation. To the pro it’s his vocation.”[12] I feel a dopamine burst when a piece clicks into place. It’s followed by a tiny surge of elation.
On this cloudless January morning my brain feels as clear as the sky and as deep as the Aegean Sea. It’s a ripe moment for decision making. I reach my hands into the coffers of my dreams. I sift through the golden coins of possibility and diamonds of potential. Something inside me clicks into place. What if I went to back to school and earned a degree in writing?
And just like that, a new doorway opens up.
2020
I cannot say that I’ve always known that I wanted to be a writer. The idea crystallized gradually. But what I’ve always known is that the life of tangible objects and face-value encounters was never enough for me. To feel satisfied, I needed more depth, more intensity. How I understood Anais Nin when she wrote: “Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.”
A task list clouds my mind. But when a story takes a hold of me, sunshine breaks through. I know that to sustain my internal climate I need both. This is how the university became the optimal turn on the fork of my winding road. It was the best compromise I could make to keep building the bridge between heaven and earth. Yes, I need both—discipline and time to roam aimlessly. Structure and flow. And since the pandemic made the classroom travel home with me, it’s once more up to me to keep putting my fingers on the keyboard and keep making the seemingly impossible dream coming true.
What you seek is seeking you.
—Rumi
Landing in the Now
The sun has set. Dim, orange light breaks through the windowpanes. It paints the now complete Cinque Terre puzzle that hangs on my wall with a golden sheen. I light a candle to extend the moment and invite magic into my space. I walk to my desk to unplug the MacBook. It must be fully charged by now.
Like me.
Propping a stack of pillows behind my back, I place one over my outstretched legs and open the laptop. Its light illuminates my face.
Morning, evening, night. Each moment is right to take another step forward.
She was barely eighteen. Her body was made of stars and desire. She wanted so many things. But more than anything, she wanted her life to have meaning.
What does it mean to be a writer? What does the practice entail? And why would anyone step onto this treacherous “road of trials,”[1] a road riddled with uncertainty and exertion that may never bring fruit?
I wonder about these questions on this dry, sunny and very quiet Sunday afternoon. It’s been like this since I returned to Poland from Newcastle two weeks ago. I hear birds and the occasional dog bark. Rarely do I hear my neighbors. Everyone, including me, has been inside for the nationwide coronavirus lockdown.
Holding a cup of tea, I wonder what it would be like if the pandemic never happened and university lectures were still in session. Life would be different. More active, to be sure. I’ve always liked bathing in the energy of a collective thought cloud. Spending time with other writers inspired ideas with less effort. Entering the “creative ferment,” as the producer Eric McDougall called it,[2] was one of the reasons why I decided to pursue my MA degree in Newcastle. Others included fostering stronger discipline and committing deeper to my writing practice. But most important, writing was the path that I chose to lead me out of the mundane and towards the subtle realm of my dreams.
The lockdown makes me feel emptier and dryer inside. Much like this unusual April weather we’re having. I put down my cup of tea and recline on the sofa. The global situation has created a catatonic atmosphere that invades my space. I’m tired even though I’ve barely done any work today. Or yesterday. My eyes find the ceiling—the desert-scape of my loft, my home’s blank page—and I slide into reflection.
It’s been twenty-two years since I stepped onto this road with the aim to turn my eclectic ideas into cohesive stories. And while I did learn how to write better, I also learned that pursuing a single objective over a period of time can offer more than a bigger toolbox. It can provide constancy in a changing world and bring us closer to authenticity and fulfillment by generating deeper encounters with the self.
Don’t be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others.
Unfold your own myth.
—Rumi
1998
It started with music. On a lazy summer day, my sister and I took a stroll through Capitola. The tiny resort town was not too far from Santa Cruz where she and I rented a room. After a little window shopping, we popped into a small Italian café to cool off with ice coffee. Just as we sat down, three young men with long hair began setting up their musical gear. We ordered a cake to stay longer and listen.
Their compositions were humid and lush, flooding the place with an atmosphere of magic. Music has always stirred my imagination. It’s no secret that soundscapes and creativity are linked. When we listen to the tunes we like, the brain secretes dopamine, which causes emotional arousal.[3] So when the trio in the Capitola café began their melodic odyssey, I floated away with them. And just like that, dancing in the aural field, my daydreaming mind conjured up spaces to explore and characters that had names and things to do.
More than two decades later, I came across the following passage by Carol Lloyd: “Before you can create anything—a film, a dance, a sculpture, a life—you must allow your vision of it to grow into something clear and vivid and, above all, seductive.”[4] This is exactly what happened to me that afternoon—I was seduced into a story that crystallized inside my mind.
The girl’s name was Shira. She came to the Palace the night before. She didn’t know where she was or why she was there. All she knew was that the moist climate of this country softened her skin and lulled her tired mind. Shira walked through a shaded labyrinthine corridor. The surrounding jungle pushed inside through openings in trellises while small camera lenses like bug eyes scrutinized her every move…
So I had an idea… Now what? I moved from Poland to California only a year ago. My English vocabulary was still scant and I had no concept of what it would take to write a story with a beginning, middle and end. The idea of ever committing my vision to a novel seemed impossible. But a seed had been planted. For the time being, I stored it in the cool cavern of my mind where it would await its proper season.
2020
While my eyes continue to rest on the ceiling, my mind keeps racing. The truth is that twenty-two years ago I saw the face of fear. I was afraid to tell this story because it would expose thoughts that I wasn’t ready to share. I was also afraid of doing a bad job because I didn’t yet know how to write a full story. I didn’t know about character arcs or story structure. But most important, I was afraid that I would fail and so I didn’t even start.
“Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us where we have to go,”[5] writes Steven Pressfield in The War of Art that sits on a table next to me. But since I didn’t have his words to propel me on my way, I let fear suppress my initial impulse. But there was more. Any trace of courage that I may have felt that day was further overshadowed by a belief that I was too young to write. As an 18-year-old, I told myself that I was not in a place to share anything of substance. The puzzle of my life still lacked critical pieces.
As writers we face many obstacles to what seems like such a straightforward activity. Place your fingers on the keyboard. Or easier—put the pen to paper. “(Feel fortunate—for very little money you are in business!),” writes Natalie Goldberg.[6] But the whole affair is so much more complicated. We invent reasons—few real, most false—that keep getting in the way of spontaneously expressing the mystery that stirs within us. We resist the pull by arguing with ourselves why now is not the time and postpone the task ad-infinitum. We become kings and queens of procrastination. Until a critical moment arrives and we can no longer ignore the call.
The cave you fear to enter
holds the treasure you seek.
—Joseph Campbell
2005
Chapter two of my writer’s tale started with a book about aliens. No, not science-fiction. It was purportedly, the story of human origins. I took the book off a friend’s shelf while visiting his cottage in Mendocino, with a silent promise to return it once I’m done reading. The story drew me in. I read the book in the bathroom and under the desk in my cubicle. I took it with me to the gym where I multitasked sweating on the Step Master while keeping up with the Parthenon of Sumerian gods, goddesses and their extraterrestrial posse.
The book told a story of a dynasty that many thousands of years ago brought its rule to planet Earth. Their saga was full of conspiracy and intrigue not unlike our primetime television dramas. My hands warmed the book and fingers softened its pages; pencil dots littered the margins, as to not mark it too much. The real world paled while my imaginary one caught fire. It was so much more interesting to invent a romance between a demigod and a human in 40,000 BC than schedule interviews between job candidates and human resources.
My saving grace were my lunch walks around the concrete office campus in South San Francisco, which I had turned into self-coaching sessions. If I had enough money to not have to work another day in my life, what would I do with my time? The answer was as clear as the cloudless sky--I’d write stories. What sort of stories? To answer, I needed to sit down on the curb. The hot sun and the idea that suddenly possessed me made me dizzy.
But how are you going to write THAT?
I don’t know.
It’s like inventing a new mythology!
I know.
Once more, the idea seemed impossible. But at least I could no longer tell myself that I couldn’t write. While in college, I had penned two dozen articles that were published in the student paper. One even won an award. But what made me most driven was noticing how differently I felt when I thought of writing for a living and climbing that “impossible” summit versus climbing the corporate ladder until retirement.
The creative peak lasted two weeks. This time I held tighter to the Muse’s coattails. I began writing Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages and bought a few books on starting over in the creative field. To nourish my antediluvian thirst, I printed photographs of cave paintings at Lascaux and re-read Plato’s references to Atlantis. The world gained more depth. Colors became more vivid. Slowly, I was constructing a bridge out of my cubicle and into the stars.
2020
When you become inspired, it’s like you’re possessed. In the words of Alice Walker, “There is just something that never goes away. It is always with me no matter what I’m doing; I literally cannot lose it.”[7] I agree. The idea is like a tune that keeps playing in your mind. It follows you everywhere, vibrating the atoms around you, intensifying colors, softening edges. It’s like being taken over by something powerful and unspeakable that needs you to find words for. It makes your lips and bones quiver. Everything’s abuzz and life’s chaos clicks into a semblance of order. Wind becomes a lover’s touch and thunder an explosion in the core of your soul.
Just like for the timeless hero in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the journey always entails trials, tests and tribulations. But there’s also something else—a counter-force. “The hero is covertly aided by the advice, amulets and secret agents of the supernatural helper,”[8] he writes. It’s as if something wants you to go on. It waits for you to say yes. And when you do, the whole world rushes in to help. The right books start falling into your hands, the right people speak at the right time, their words hinting at what to do next.
2010-2015
It took five more years to begin writing my first novel and four more to finish it. Tama Kieves’ words spurred me into action. In her book, This Time I Dance, Kieves rings the motivation bell. “Your dreams want to come true,” she writes. “They call you to let go of fear and step into your real life—a life that’s lush with meaning, freedom and the dance of a lifetime.”[9] For someone who was starting to feel hopeless about ever finding fulfillment in her day job, this was exactly what I needed to hear.
The first baby’s name was Moonchild. To finish the manuscript, I moaned and bled. But I also thrived. Between nine and six, Monday through Friday I sleepwalked through life. But at 6 am and after 8 pm, I lived in a dream I didn’t want to leave.
It took a lot of will and effort to switch between creating and earning. But holding the self-published book in my hands made it all worth it. As did realizing that I could do it. I could carry a project like this to the end. This was a significant breakthrough, like crossing a threshold or winning a marathon.
For a period of time, I was able to keep my Silicon Valley job and still write. But I was exhausted and didn’t feel like I fully belonged to the business world nor the writer’s world. I felt split inside. My corporate career stalled but I didn’t have enough faith or means to abandon my only source of financial security. To compensate, I signed up for as many writer’s workshops as I could and purchased a few pairs of shoes.
*
It was a fragment of a tune… Barely a melody. I caught it walking from a café, holding four lattes in a tray. By the time I entered the office, I was back in the jungle with Shira’s spirit in full possession of me. The world came alive once more. My office became the Palace. My goal was no longer to make my boss happy but to navigate the rules of the contest I was constructing, fall in love, and win.
It came as no surprise when a few weeks later my manager called me into his office and told me that my job was on the line. There was no point to argue so I handed in my resignation.
Standing on the edge of a cliff in Santorini a month later, I looked at the smooth surface of the deep blue sea nine-hundred feet below me. The sea was hiding a treasure trove of myths and secrets waiting to be harvested. I felt a familiar tug of seduction. I was not yet in a place where I could afford to devote myself fully to writing but I realized something important. My heart had left management. It belonged here, where the treasures laid.
2020
The Muse had to wait a long time to receive my full yes. Well, almost full. Knowing me, the final step on my road of trials just had to include earning a degree to seal the deal and chase away lingering self-doubts. It’s been a long trek. In the beginning it seemed so straight forward. Expand your vocab. Write proper sentences (not so long, for goodness sake). Master story structure. Get some life experience. Get a grip.
But life (and people) are so much more complicated than a neat prescription. What started as a seductive idea that wouldn’t go away, unfolded into a long journey of intense encounters.
your body
is a museum
of natural disasters
can you grasp how
stunning that is
—Rupi Kaur
2019
What does it mean to be a professional writer? The question chills me. Will I ever be ready? Will I ever live up to the expectation this question imposes?
I like Clarice Lispector’s answer. “I insist on not being a professional,” she said in the only interview she ever gave. “I only write when I want to. I’m an amateur and insist on staying that way.”[10] But is this a stance that I could afford?
My journey has led me to scale down my business and moving it online. I’ve gained long stretches of time that I could devote to writing. But I’m not doing it as much as I should.
Why not?
On the large table rests a dog-eared book; its words echo in my mind. “The amateur plays for fun. The professional plays for keeps.”[11] I lean over the 2000-piece puzzle of Cinque Terre I’ve been putting together since Christmas. I return to it when I’m lost and confused. “To the amateur, the game is his avocation. To the pro it’s his vocation.”[12] I feel a dopamine burst when a piece clicks into place. It’s followed by a tiny surge of elation.
On this cloudless January morning my brain feels as clear as the sky and as deep as the Aegean Sea. It’s a ripe moment for decision making. I reach my hands into the coffers of my dreams. I sift through the golden coins of possibility and diamonds of potential. Something inside me clicks into place. What if I went to back to school and earned a degree in writing?
And just like that, a new doorway opens up.
2020
I cannot say that I’ve always known that I wanted to be a writer. The idea crystallized gradually. But what I’ve always known is that the life of tangible objects and face-value encounters was never enough for me. To feel satisfied, I needed more depth, more intensity. How I understood Anais Nin when she wrote: “Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.”
A task list clouds my mind. But when a story takes a hold of me, sunshine breaks through. I know that to sustain my internal climate I need both. This is how the university became the optimal turn on the fork of my winding road. It was the best compromise I could make to keep building the bridge between heaven and earth. Yes, I need both—discipline and time to roam aimlessly. Structure and flow. And since the pandemic made the classroom travel home with me, it’s once more up to me to keep putting my fingers on the keyboard and keep making the seemingly impossible dream coming true.
What you seek is seeking you.
—Rumi
Landing in the Now
The sun has set. Dim, orange light breaks through the windowpanes. It paints the now complete Cinque Terre puzzle that hangs on my wall with a golden sheen. I light a candle to extend the moment and invite magic into my space. I walk to my desk to unplug the MacBook. It must be fully charged by now.
Like me.
Propping a stack of pillows behind my back, I place one over my outstretched legs and open the laptop. Its light illuminates my face.
Morning, evening, night. Each moment is right to take another step forward.
She was barely eighteen. Her body was made of stars and desire. She wanted so many things. But more than anything, she wanted her life to have meaning.
***
CITATION LINKS
[1] Campbell Joseph, The Hero with A Thousand Faces, (Novato: New World Library, 2008), p. 81
[2] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 60
[3] Lehrer Jonah, The Neuroscience of Music, (Wired, www.wired.com/2011/01/the-neuroscience-of-music/ January 19, 2011)
[4] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 14
[5] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 40
[6] Goldberg Natalie, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, (London: Shambhala, 2005), p. 6
[7] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 14
[8] Campbell Joseph, The Hero with A Thousand Faces, (Novato: New World Library, 2008), p. 81
[9] Kieves Tama, This Time I Dance: Creating the Work You Love, (New York: Penguin, 2006)
[10] Penguin Books UK, Interview with Clarice Lispector - São Paulo, 1977 (English subtitles), (YouTube: https://youtu.be/w1zwGLBpULs, January 24, 2014)
[11] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 62
[12] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 62
[1] Campbell Joseph, The Hero with A Thousand Faces, (Novato: New World Library, 2008), p. 81
[2] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 60
[3] Lehrer Jonah, The Neuroscience of Music, (Wired, www.wired.com/2011/01/the-neuroscience-of-music/ January 19, 2011)
[4] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 14
[5] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 40
[6] Goldberg Natalie, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, (London: Shambhala, 2005), p. 6
[7] Lloyd Carol, Creating a Life Worth Living, (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), p. 14
[8] Campbell Joseph, The Hero with A Thousand Faces, (Novato: New World Library, 2008), p. 81
[9] Kieves Tama, This Time I Dance: Creating the Work You Love, (New York: Penguin, 2006)
[10] Penguin Books UK, Interview with Clarice Lispector - São Paulo, 1977 (English subtitles), (YouTube: https://youtu.be/w1zwGLBpULs, January 24, 2014)
[11] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 62
[12] Pressfield Steven, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2002), p. 62
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