Last Friday afternoon I sat myself at the keyboard with one hand placed on my heart. I was filled with inspiration from the recent passing of Nelson Mandela. I allowed the writing to flow through me and then followed his lead in finding the courage to send my words. Words that arose from the deepest part of my being, out into the world, or more accurately, to a chosen group from my address book.This was the first time that I sent out a piece of writing from my heart and not surprisingly, I felt instantly vulnerable. I reviewed the people on the list over and over wondering if I would offend anyone, then wondering if I would be criticized, misunderstood, or maybe even worse, overlooked.
I didn’t speak much as a child back there in the 1960’s. My family discussed mundane matters and exchanged information about world news, politics and bridge. When they weren’t conversing this way, they were watching that big old TV console that sat in the center of the paneled family room, announcing their hard-earned arrival into a safe, suburban life. As you can imagine, the presence of a little girl dancing around in her tutu, making art with glitter and crying over every little thing was not exactly a great fit. I was either making a mess with my art supplies or my feelings or both. I couldn’t figure out how to speak the language of my family. Consequently I didn’t speak much at all. In fact, I concluded that I must be brain-dead. So in desperate need of a strategy, I chose listening. I listened to anyone and everyone who was willing to speak to me. I listened until the cows came home and then some.
It wasn’t until graduate school that a professor finally tapped into the riches of my emotional intelligence and taught me how to articulate from my heart. I discovered that I could understand complicated concepts and I could develop opinions of my own, as long as I had the opportunity to process through my feelings, my intuition and my understanding of human nature. I was relieved, for the most part, to know that I had something of value to offer, yet I continued to spend much of my life trying to repair the early damage, feeling threatened by anyone who didn’t speak from the heart. Sort of like a dry drunk, I remained frustrated by the lack of understanding I had for myself.
Lots of years, lots of challenges, or shall I say opportunities to grow, later, I now have access to the voice of my heart. After more than 25 years of helping folks to befriend their own souls, I have landed in a spot where I have accomplished just that. I am ready to begin to share this process with all who might be interested. Last week was my courageous beginning. I will set an intention to write from my heart every Friday afternoon. Each week I will digest the offerings from my dear clients and combine their offerings with my own experience and process in the hopes of creating a bit of humble alchemy. Turning challenge into treasure and wrapping it up as a gift for you.
Much love, Jane