March 29, 2021
The life of a daily writer. If you could only see the words on the page. If you could sit through the moments required to move those words from the universe right into your eyes. A lifelong journey that shouldn’t scare you from trying. The day to day experiences are how you tap into collaboration of me myself and I with the disciplined agreement to not make it about us but rather you. The exchange is mind blowing. Like songwriters. I’m amazed at how something they happened to be inspired by becomes the hook that we constantly sing. An exercise I do every day is something I call Stream Thinking. Free Form Writing. Give yourself only ten minutes to write anything. To open your limitations without trapping it within the avenues of expectation. Challenge your creative self to show up and it will. It needs to be held accountable for its presence in your life. My Stream Thinking exercise yesterday put the creative mind face to face with this cancel culture society we’ve accepted. Except I call it cancer culture. It’s poisoned us and will continue to erase from our shaping why we took form. I didn’t start daily writing until July 1994. I was thirty two. That’s a lot of chapters and experiences that weren’t written about. Those risqué early teen years leading into a teen marriage. It was illegal for us to get married in Montana so we ran away to Wyoming. She ripped up the wedding license two hours after saying “I do.” If I only had a writing instrument then. But because I’m remembering it means I’ve probably rewritten my history. Cancel culture. Repositioned it in a way that allows myself to forgive the moment. Hey wait! The marriage wasn’t over! I was blessed with twelve years with this incredible person. Would I have written that sentence on February 26, 1981 at the age of 19? Cancel culture starts with us. In fact I heard a quote over the weekend, “The only person who can cancel culture is the one who started the situation that caused the cancel culture.” How many middle aged men and women are like me? At 19 my teenage girl friend and I faced a decision that could’ve led to a family. I had no voice. I could only experience. My only choice was to grow beyond in ways where the collaboration made better decisions. I wish I would’ve had a writing instrument when my face was buried in that pillow and the stepfather figure sat next to me asking what he could do. The only real time I felt like I had a Dad. Until this moment I’ve cancel cultured the situation because the history of it all has been too weighty. I don’t daily write to live in the past. I study the path. It removes the cancer culture.