… Am I turning inward?
People are talking about something I wrote a while ago. I feel like a peeping tom, squinting through the window slats.
I see you have thoughts related to my thoughts, she thought.
Anxiety and impatience, tightly wound together. Always in a hurry, I push myself around.
In considering a life of greater silence, I imagine the lifting of a burden.
When I cease aiming my thoughts outward, I gain access to a rich inner life.
The landscape is familiar. Did I play here as a child? Last night, my bed became a pirate ship on rough seas.
Inward, my heart insists. Inward.
A story can be a wild thing, dug up in an old faerie mound.
It’s difficult to find references to this place. It slips away the moment you try to wrap it in words. Ray Bradbury called his my secret self.
How strange that inward calls for less reflection, less self-examination. Outward thinking turns the self into subject matter. I becomes the focus, the hero of every story and share.
But I is not my subject.
I cannot push my I outward without sanding down my rougher edges. And therein lies a blogger’s struggle. Politeness and amicable fitting in makes for fine dinner parties, but self-censorship in personal reflection is anathema to the heart’s integrity.
My rough edges are where the good stuff grows. I need my raw compost! Oh, that beautiful muck.
A clue was waiting in the first chapter of The Artist’s Way. There’s a difference between “official” thoughts and our real ones. Thus the artist’s journal remains private, a pen and paper conversation between a writer’s two selves.