Many of you might remember I first started writing because I was trying to find that place called Home. That was three years ago and around that time someone said to me: you know, Home isn’t something you go looking for on the outside. Home is in here (with her hand on her heart).
She was right, but I had to learn the lesson my way. I stopped looking and started writing under a different banner that encompassed going slow, going about life in a conscious, mindful, trusting manner and doing whatever resonated with me on a deep level.
I was on the right track, though sometimes I would laugh inwardly at the hilarity of the name when life was anything but slow, when my choices were anything but mindful.
Though I did write from the heart, I wasn’t yet ready to be courageous in my writing. I wrote to please. I wrote to stay safe. It’s not obvious to you on the outside but it is to me. I wrote to fit in somehow, albeit quite subconsciously.
I started off by writing about food, gardening and parenting, and then the food slowly dwindled and the words became about living and courage and clutter and emotions. Am I a food writer or not? Do I want to tell you about cabbage butterflies? Am I the least bit interested in documenting my children on my blog?
I was, I did and yes, I was for a while.
The answers now? No, No and No!
I lost the urge to write seven months ago for no other reason than to allow me to see that certain things I’d been hanging onto had to die away. To allow me to see that I needed to write as me. Without the veils. It’s still writing from the heart but there’s a necessary infusion of boldness and fierceness this time round. It’s a big leap and there’s no safety net.
As for what I will be writing about, it’s the stuff that bubbles up inside me. Breaking free. Living free. Exploring our inner landscapes. Less of the ego-fuelled force, more of that sacred trust in life. It’s believing in real magic.
Scary, but exciting.
This is home.