Today is the type of day that I’ve been dreading since I decided that I would blog everyday. The type of day where I have absolutely no motivation to do any of the practices that I have set up to support my creativity. It’s as if I woke up with no energy, desire, willingness to do any of the things that I know support me. It very well could be a direct result of the rain and overall blanket of dreariness that Mother Nature has laid upon us.
The other thing that I’m starting to worry about is the content that I’m posting. I’m not even a week into this (vaguely gestures with my hand in a circle) whatever I’m calling writing/blogging everyday and it’s like my ego has decided to step in and decide that what I have to write about is extremely boring and of no use to anyone. I remember my first or second blog post sharing that I had always placed too much pressure on myself, and here it comes. The pressure. I mean, no one is even reading this, so what’s the matter? It can be utter crap and it’s simply the practice.
It’s days like today where I can be incredibly hard on myself. The ever increasing amount of self-criticism that I place upon myself. The stories that start to rear their heads.
This entry today is probably going to make absolutely no sense, but again it’s the practice. Just show up, write, and maybe someday I will be sharing something valuable and that can help others.
I mean, that is why I’m doing this. To satiate this desire to write, to be share, to help others. I’m always driven by this invisible pull that my story, the way that I move through my days, how I interact with life may be of some interest to others. Even though I have this story that my live is utterly boring and of no importance. Weird, right?
Just keep writing every day so that I can get into a rhythm, find my style, my voice. Maybe one day one of these entries will actually have some jewel, some nugget of inspiration. Until them, it will be boring recounts of my days, endless rambles of the thoughts in my head, and a process for me to stay present in my feelings. I can’t guarantee that what I write may always be nice, as this process right now is for me and me alone.