TrueVoice Tuesday, a weekly email designed to give you a short burst of inspiration in a world that feels chaotic and confusing.
Each week the format is: A Truth | A Tip | A Take | A Tale.
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A Truth (one thought about sharing your TrueVoice):
The person we lie to most is typically ourselves. Learning how to be fully, truly ourselves is one of life’s most magnificent journeys.
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A Tip (one thing I’ve picked up from others this week):
“Your heart possesses an unparalleled intelligence that your mind alone could never give you access to—it can transform every aspect of your life.” Kimberly Snyder on the Rich Roll Podcast
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A Take (a strong opinion or nitpick):
Audit your energy. How much of it do you give to fear, criticism, gossip, the news, scrolling, numbing, comparison, and a desire to control? That kind of energy is not generative, but it’s pervasive.
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A Tale (a book update):
Welp, resistance and the whispers got me this week.
I wrote two times.
Last Tuesday and Wednesday morning.
Poised to get my 5 sessions in this week.
Then I didn’t open the google doc after that.
Lovely intentions, even a plan, but I made all the excuses.
Too busy.
Froze up.
Will write tonight.
Will write tomorrow.
And, the truth is, I just didn’t write.
Something under the surface held me back.
Questioning if I actually have anything worth saying.
If it’s worth reading.
I know in my head it’s bullshit, but in my heart, I couldn’t get going.
I wrote on the deck one morning. And the cabin the next.
1,042 words added to the plot.
15,294 total in the rearview mirror.
And here’s the ironic, favorite chunk I wrote last Tuesday morning, right before resistance sieged me.
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When Brooke had each of our five children, the witnessing was wild.
We think we want a friction free, comfortable life, but childbirth is literally full of blood, sweat, and tears.
Pressure that pushes and contracts and confuses and frustrates and hurts and relieves.
There’s no way it should be possible, and then it’s possible.
A bloody, slimy, screaming mess of humanity bursts into existence, and words can’t describe the room or the scene.
Awe. Wonder. Delight.
I’m not directly relating the pain of childbirth to writing, I know better than that.
But I am saying it’s inside you.
And when you commit to its process and work, it does a work in you first, long before it expresses itself outward.
But you must not judge it. You must not alter it. You must not resist it.
You must give way. You must surrender. You must open yourself.
Once it’s born, birthed, and bloody, then you can walk away from it. Take a walk or a check of Twitter or smoke a cigarette.
And then come back to your baby.
She’s probably ugly, and that’s ok.
She’s yours.
And you can work on cleaning her up at that point.
With fresh eyes, and an exhaled mind, you can look at the work the heart did, and start shaping it.
Making edits. Cutting fluff. Removing bullshit. Helping its form meet the function of the rest of the world.
Not just the bloody scene of the birth.
