I started this blog in 2011 because I had experienced something which, at the time, was traumatic. I was also experiencing high levels of stress at work and had forgotten how to use creative outlets to reconnect with the world. It’s very interesting to look back on the last three years and see how I have grown, what lessons I have learned, and recognizing that life is very cyclical.
Writing has always been an important part of my life, and it is only recently that I have begun to share that with the world. I don’t think anything I write is exceptionally special or earth-shattering, but I realized that the reason I was reading books wasn’t only for the sake of reading a book; it was because I was trying to connect with what the author was really trying to say. I don’t think writing is necessarily a choice; it’s more of a compulsion. Anyway, what I’m really trying to say here is that I write because I hope that someone stumbling upon this diary can find some solace in the words of a stranger, and to know that as humans we are really very interconnected. It’s scary and intimidating to lay your inner thoughts on the line, but this isn’t about showcasing emotions like cakes in a bakery display; it’s for those that need the connection. Somewhere, someone has felt like you. Maybe I have felt like you–maybe you have felt like me.
I was inspired by author Jo Coudert’s book, Advice from a Failure, when I wrote this journal entry. I offer up my reflections to anyone else who has felt something similar at some point.
I have searched and cried and prayed, and whatever god exists, exists without bias, and without human mind. At least without a human mind that my simple one can comprehend. Instead, there is a god–maybe like the ‘god of small things’–who exists somewhere deep inside. “Here am I,” it says, small and far away.
And here am I, small, and tiny, and afraid. My tiny life is no greater, and no less than any other tiny life in this world. And maybe I have failed, maybe I have failed countless times. I have failed to be so many things, and to have met so many expectations, and I have failed to have continued to see the Way.
Maybe I failed because I wasn’t small and neatly packaged enough. Maybe I failed because I came with too many stipulations and too much necessity for compromise. Maybe I failed because I was not strong enough or maybe because I was too strong at times. Maybe I failed because when I was rejected and turned away I could not leave well enough alone with dignity. Maybe I failed because I wasn’t something else entirely.
But I am this thing; I have always been this, and to deny it is to deny myself. And if all else changed in the blink of an eye, I would be left with just this.
It is not love to deny the self, or to feel quashed and trapped because of the desire to quell the self for another. It is not love to deny what we are. So, to stop pursuing love is to find it. To find it in those who have always loved us, despite our faults. To find it in the small acts of kindness we ourselves can attempt to offer, the compassion we can attempt to give. In the ability to look at our fellow man and not judge his or her shortcomings, but to feel only compassion and empathy for all who suffer from this human condition.
And, finally, to hear the voice that says, “Here am I,” far away in the depths within, and to answer, “Here I am, I will never leave.”