Creative Devotion (Part 1) • That's the goal, to survive your gift

Are you in the middle of a creative pursuit? Could be a business, brand, book, art project or science experiment.

Feeling stuck, start-stop-start-stop, or no light at the end of a tunnel?

Well... ⤵︎

Peer into how I survived my gift (and curse) over the last decade to unleash my Opportestiny™ masterpiece (in-the-making).

Don't do it my way (you'll probably want to die). But handpick ingredients that resonate to cook up your way.

Together, we can unlearn, heal, relearn and reclaim all the ways parents/school/society failed us phoenixes, overachievers, wisdom keepers, non-conformists and way showers.

Heart Amnesty

I never wanted or dreamed of becoming an entrepreneur nor a writer. I was raised as an ATM. You punch them and they dispense cash. I never had a dream. ATMs don't dream. I never knew that a "dream" was even a thing until 30, during coach training. I shrugged it off as a “hmm, must be a white people thing 🤔.”

About 8 years later, I halted the entirety of my life for an uninterrupted 6-month Writing Devotional. Why?!?

For all of my childhood and teenagehood, I was invisible. Perpetually inadequate, other than ATM dispensing. Thoroughly insignificant, other than ATM dispensing. No one saw me. No one heard me.

Nowhere to go. No one to turn to. No safe place. No safe person. (It’s not random that I became “the safest place on earth to remember who you truly are.”)

So I confided in tree pulp. Unlike the Sapiens, paper doesn’t project. Paper doesn't victim-blame. Paper doesn't retaliate.

Paper caught me and the splats of my acid tears. Paper held me and the crushing weight of filial piety. Never demanding anything in return. Paper was my only amnesty, where my pain would not be used against me in a court of law. I burned every sheet before the Sapiens could use my truth to burn me at the stake.

What was my crime? Existing. What were my secondary charges? One count of: Failing to be the best white man I should have been. And one count of: Failing to become a 7-figure ATM dispenser by age 24.

Space Clawing

Around 30, near the end of a wretched Saturn Return (which I didn't know was even a thing until years later), an inner volcano blasted in a desperate yearning for deep, deep impact and vast, vast freedom. And it wanted it done-done yesteryear. It felt like I’d been given a terminal diagnosis with mere months to live. It was a matter of life and death. I just didn’t know what “it” was.

By then, I was steeped in "Time & Financial Freedom" tea and marinated in "You are nobody without a bestselling book" sauce.

My confabulations sounded like:

• When I'm a legit author, they will invite me in, feature/partner up with me (at a time when marketing felt like molasses crawling up Everest during an avalanche). This is it, my only chance to be wanted.
• When I have a large readership, they'll create a thick “love moat” to protect me from the Sapiens. This is it, the only way to be safe.

⏳ Day 1

So I bought a "How to Write a Bestseller" e-course and sat down for “it,” not knowing what "it" was. I'd devote an entire summer to writing "it" and have a bestseller by autumn equinox. #genuinelyconvinced #sonaive #lifedoesntworkthatwaylittlegirl 😂

I wrote an hour a day like "they" said to, even though I 4-knew that I work best in 3hr batches. But "they" knew everything and I knew nothing, so they win.

Ugh, it was theeeeee 3 worst months of my professional life! Writing sucked and sucked and sucked all the wind out of my  business, personal, social, travel and hobby sails. I felt flicked off the Earth untethered, and had to claw at ambling protons to doggie paddle back from outer space.

Woof, not doing that again.

Sea Bobbing

Yearning magma kept spewing, “You have NO time left. You HAVE TO make a difference NOW, ya mother f*cker!!!” I couldn't shut it up or down.

In the meantime, as I continued to tumble to the back of the freedompreneurship washer-dryer, I static clung to a few oddballs. “So this is where us lost socks go,” I marveled. Namasocks!

⏳ Month 11

I discovered the concept of co-working through my leadership training. I asked a soulsister to co-sock and she said yes. She'd pick the coziest spaces, with tummy teas and tasty treats. Our time together thawed this Lone Wolf's biscotti marrow. It felt like “carbonated holiness” (– Anne Lamott), also known as joy. Joy?!? That's even a thing!?! Connection?!? That's a thing too?!? Whaaaaaat!?! 🤯

She introduced me to The Artist’s Way and its Morning Pages. My gawd... Forever. Changed. I wrote them by hand until I was expunged of all thought. On “Empath down. I repeat, empath down! 🚨” days, I wrote until my hand "Phoebe teaches Joey guitar" turkey clawed. Go big or go big, right?

Morning Pages powerwashed my mental driveway and gifted me daily mirror lake stillness and silence. Huh, so this is the raw power of writing, impressive!

Add to that a trickle of heartwarming feedback on some of my stories. Add to that a desire to build self-expression consistency muscles. Ok, ok, I'll butt glue for an entire second summer. "I got this. I failed to publish last autumn, but I will this equinox." I convinced myself. #awwbabygirl #stillsonaive

This time though, I tethered to Earth via two writing buddies, Mi and Ma. We met weekly for 2hrs, so that's 4hrs/week. Maybe "they (the DWG)" don't know everything after all. Maybe I knew some things of what works best for me. 

⏳ Year 1 Month 7

I thought I was writing a "self-help" book. But after a 10-day silent meditation retreat in Guatemala, 86 profound lessons on freedom spewed out of me into a coffee table book. I had read of authors "downloading" their book, but never thought that'd apply to me. "Does it always come with so much flying snot and ugly cry?" I wondered. 🤔

With a view of smoldering cones from my desk, I churned out a gorgeous final product in 8 days, with 104 photos and lessons on freedom from the 104 countries travelled.

Before publishing, I showed it to a soulsister with 20 years of writing/editing expertise. She uber lovingly asked, "What's the message? What's the value-add? Why would a reader buy this?" I don't know. Cue trout slap. I don't know. Cue fly swat. I don't know. Cue shame toilet flush.

The epitome of my genius, the culmination of everything that I am, yielded a book nowhere near good enough for publishing. Seriously nowhere. So I snowplowed all publishing nonsense off the cliff, with me still in the driver's seat. I'm done. Forevah. #sodramatic #wellyeahCPTSDwilldothattoya

Around that time, my sunflower co-sock sent me a quote ⤵︎

That!

"Maybe my story isn't finished. And that's why my book isn't finished," she added. I was mesmerized by her elevated approach, while I just plowed mine off a cliff and gave it the finger on the way down.

My entire body exhaaaaaaled with permission. "F*ck the book, just go live," I allowed myself. Maybe my story isn't finished either...

For nearly two years, my "book" bobbed on the abandoned sea of the abyss.

Treading Shards

⏳ Year 3 Month 4

Now in my mid-30's, an unplanned* move to Spain led me to plant medicines. (*Or did the Universe plan it all along? 🤔) I had never done any drugs. Never smoked. Never drank. Not even coffee.

But over 3 consecutive full moons and 10 plant medicine ceremonies, stories popcorned and cranberried out of every orifice. I told them to my soulsisters and they craughed out loud at the searing grief and absurd hilarity. Huh, so this is the raw power of storytelling, of storyteller... nom, nom, nom, addictive!

So I rescinded my "F*ck the book," bought Scrivener, and anointed myself a real writer.

I definitely pulled my finger off the dam because I sob-vomited hundreds of repressed memories, suppressed secrets, and traumas onto the page, the only safe place on earth. Every tear was a shard of glass. Over the next 2+ years, after folding in heaps of journals and unpublished blogs and Gdocs, I had treaded 1.08 million word shards. #nowritersblockhere

I wanted to die. Not because writing forced me to see and feel how devastated, predated, exploited, and violated I had been. But because writing forced me to see and feel how I had generated 1.08 miiiiiilliiiiiion shards of self-abuse and self-heartbreak.

I thought writing was supposed to be therapeutic. But now I needed therapy for my therapy. The only thing that kept me going was ⤵︎

You were my “someone else.” Whether grief drowned 🌊, rage roasted ❤️‍🔥, anxiety whirled 🌪️, or depression buried ⚰️, I did it for you. I did it all for you, mother f*ckers!! (Wait, did Ella just call us a mother f*cker? <confer, confer> Yes, yes she did.)

Air Filtering

⏳ Year 5 Month 6

While on trial separation with Spain for irreconcilable differences, aka for bureaucratic incompetency, the Universe blew me like a feather in the wind to Buenos Aires (which translates as "good winds", yup, yup I see what you did there, Universe 😉).

Then, wabam, 1 global pandemic, 6 straight months of lockdown, and 2 straight years of border blockade!

This empath was drafted, without consent, to inhale humanity's terror, rage and grief and exhale fresh peace. I never consented to be a disposable air filter, once grimy replaced by the next empath. With next day shipping to boot! I know how you feel, Amazon Jungle, it’s an invisible, chronic and thankless job. 

Do we ever get to control how the Universe summons us and/or how the Sapiens use us? Methinks not.

All creative projects were shot.

⏳ Year 6 Month 7

Second year of pandemic, I saw an Irish exit, “Universe is busy with all the dying, I can slip out of book writing. I’m done cutting myself with shards of my own grief."

But… the Universe wouldn’t let me. It pecked at me like a ravenous woodpecker after a bender. Have you ever been PECKED AT? <shudder>

Globetrotting was unsafe. Hermiting was finally socially acceptable, encouraged even by global Heads of State. The pecking drove me resolute, "Ok, it's a new year. I have 12 months to finish a goddamn manuscript, dingbat font and all. There WILL be a clear message. There WILL be immense value-add. Readers WILL want to buy this." #stillstillsonaive

I had popcorns. I had cranberries. And I had shards. Now how do I red thread them together to make a string of pearls? How I envied Christmas trees, with their popcorn-popcorn-cranberry, popcorn-popcorn-cranberry garland. Simple. Structured. Hmph.

Snow Angeling

⏳ Year 7 Month 3

Searching for a book structure, the red thread, was like sliding butt naked down a Parmesan grater, sometimes head first. Again and again.

I discharge the restlessness by making snow angels on my wood floor or yoga ball. Months and months passed and oh! I noticed 2 categories of stories:

• wounding stories (trauma, neglect, abuse, etc.) → they go on a blue post-it
  
• healing stories (antidote, reclamation, triumph, etc.) → they go on a yellow post-it.

I lay back down – angel arms, angel skirt, angel arms, angel skirt. Months and months passed and oh! I noticed 4  types of healing:

• mind-knowing (cognitive understanding) → blue sticker
• heart-knowing (felt comprehension) → green sticker
• body-knowing (lived experience) → orange sticker
• soul-knowing (re-membered truth) → pink sticker

Whenever a story carried multiple types of knowing, I brought out the big guns and cement bolted my Perfectionist back into her coffin. 🪦

As such, I tagged 301 stories up the wazoo in chronological order. I even hired a Communications expert to validate my taxonomy and assemble a writing sample. It worked!

But now what? Back to snow angeling?

Hmm... nah, I got a better idea! Let's tag each story by level of juiciness:

• “Interesting” stories → small rhinestone sticker
  
• “What? No way!” stories → medium blossom sticker
  
• “Holy super f*cks!?!” stories → large pearl sticker
  

The answer to my wazoo turned out to be... more wazoo! 🎉

It was the perfect storm of Overachiever + neurodivergent Gifted Adult + Martyr persecution + trauma Flight Response + child of immigrant Overcompensator + OCD, yielding a penchant for private tidying and an aversion to public truthing. I now had 301 wazoos to the exponent wazoo. And I never wanted to become a writer in the first place. What. The f*ck. 

Fire Palming

⏳ Year 7 Month 4

One day, I was watching an animation of white blood cells jiggle wiggle toward pathogens, as one does. Then wabam, I saw it!! 🧨🤯

I saw my blue post-its (wounding stories) wiggle on the wall toward a specific Wounded Child archetype. "What if then yellow post-its (healing stories) are  antidote?" I extrapolated and watched them wiggle on the wall toward its pathogenic archetype. À la The Queen's Gambit, minus the drugs.

I had been searching for the red thread for 7 years and 4 months. Of those 7, I had spent 5 years masterfully working with archetypes. All this time, the red thread of wounding-archetype-antidotes, wounding-archetype-antidotes was right in front of my whiskers!?! I couldn't believe it, I found it!! I died of Nir. Va. Na.

About 20 minutes later, I warped like a Dali clock, sank through the floorboard, and died of dread at the Herculean work ahead. To cluster 301 wazoo stories by archetype, I’d have to actually read all my writing 🤢.

Nope, nope, did not want to retread 1.08 miiiiiillion word shards. But I did it all for you (even though I called you a mother f*cker earlier, sorry about that).

The Universe kept pecking at me as catnip. The only way I could get it to stop was to palm each hot coal story and patiently cup it until I knew which archetypal campfire to return it Home to. My hands never got burned because this empath has no shortage of matafuego tears.

Like UniKitty-on-crack, I pawed at the tip of that red threat until the entire yarn ball unraveled. ⤵︎

In my fervor, I may have hung myself with the red thread twice or thrice 😬. But hey, still alive to tell the tale.

⏳ Year 7 Month 5

That autumn, I was invited by an acquaintance to give a stage talk. My first ever! I weaved fire palming and the 4 types of knowing and closed with, “Fear not the flames, you are the fire.” 🎤👊

Audience members came up to me, red nosed and teary eyed. "She moves hearts," they said. "Damn you for making me cry in public," they said. I planned it #sorrynotsorry. It worked!

One. For the first time EVER, I was not hung for speaking my truth.

Two. I did not die from voicing my pain.

Three. I am done, done being not enough. I am done, done being too much.

Four. Holy shit, I have an original masterpiece in-the-making on my hands. #cuedread #herculeanwork

January intentions: finish a goddamn manuscript, dingbat font and all. December outcome: no manuscript, not even close.

Tear Tagging

⏳ Year 7 Month 8

It took 29 days to unfreeze from the talk's vulnerability hangover. I booked a next day flight on Dec 31 to Ushuaia, el Fin Del Mundo. Hours before countdown, I took my inner Victim on a boat and tosser her off the coast of Tierra del Fuego 🔥🐦‍🔥🔥.

It felt like spiritual defibrillation. I didn’t know I had flatlined from air filtering the world's grief until after I brought myself back to life.

That's when I carved out an uninterrupted 6-month long Writing Devotional. And I never even wanted to be a writer in the first place.

I front loaded it with weekly therapy sessions.

And I back ended it with a whale of a trip with a bestie.

Of the 301 wazoo stories, I was eventually down to 5 that I hadn't read/wrote. I knew holding them in was poisoning, but barfing them out was bone marrow extraction, emotional corkscrew threw calcification. What to chose: pain or more pain? More pain it is! #masochismisatraumaresponse

Then right before a thunder storm, I puke the last story never told. Not even to myself. One story, barely 3-4 paragraphs, the rot and epicenter of every exploitation, predation and violation, had enslaved me for foooooorty years. How cruel.

Tsunami grief pounded my inner shores. Some go on great quests to find their calling. I want off the hellfire merry-go-round of mine.

Me: There. I made my move. Your turn, Universe. ♟
Universe: Grief is for loss.
Me: I know.
Universe: Name what you lost.
Me: Like overall?
Universe: No.
Me: Like for every single story?
Universe: Yes.
Me: All 301 stories?
Universe: Yes.
Me: You gotta be f*cking kidding me!! You suck, Universe! 🖕
Universe: I love you too.

See Grief Autopsy

I lost things I didn’t even know one could lose, such as my innocence, my right to be a person not an object, and my identity.

Does it count as a loss if I never had it in the first place? Such as a childhood, dignity, or worth (outside of ATM dispensing)? How do I grieve that which I never even had?

How do I file a police report for theft of self-trust, rape of sacredness or murder of will to live? How do I get prescription for waking up everyday haunted by, “Aww, crap. Still here.”?

During the Writing Devotional, I toe-tagged every story, every tear. Worst 6 months of my life. But man, oh man, I emerged so freeeeeed. Whoever knew tear tagging was even a thing!?!

See Grief Autopsy Report

14 Lessons on Creative Devotion

⏳ Year 8 Month 7

That non-stop Writing Devotional was THE most miserable 6 months of my life! It felt like a long coma I couldn’t wake up from (that I self-induced 🤦🏻‍♀️).

I knew well enough to take a long, loooooong break from writing. I never wanted to be a writer in the first place! #tiredofsayingit

To balm my mind, heart, body and soul, a bestie and I traipsed all over Peninsula Valdez and Jujuy, whale watching and rock watching.

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And somewhere in the middle of a forced moved, during a 5-month long heat dome, emerged 14 Lessons on Creative Devotion, aka psyche dredging. May they prepare you for your descent into the abyss. 😉

See 14 Lessons

The truth about comas is: You don’t know you’re in a coma until after you wake up.

Live fierce, fulfilled, and free!

(First published Jul 10, 2019)