The artist's way is through the fire

My daily morning writing has been an integral part of my life for years. The troves of my subconscious are written in cursive all over these books. Pain, hope, contemplation, channeled messages, random thoughts, doubts, insecurities, hard knots of strength and perseverance, powerful lessons and moments of truth.

And today, on Samhain 2021, I am going to burn them all. 🐉🔥

I’ve been looking forward to this day for months since I made the decision. There’s no reason to hang onto them. I’m not narcissistic enough to imagine that my morning musings will someday be discovered after my death like the lost gospels of Thomas, or that my life’s work is somehow nestled like a jewel in my scribbled mind dumps. Nor do I have any desire to thumb through the pages of my past as if my past self has somehow achieved enlightenment over the same patterns I replay over and over.

I certainly used to do that. Contemplating the past like a hidden key to what I’m feeling now, instead of feeling the moment as it is. A clever way to escape the lessons of the present moment and resist the transformational pull of life.

Now I know why Julia Cameron advised us not to go back.

When I asked myself why certain things refused to change, I neglected to realize how I was hanging on to the past like a teething blanket. Memories, oh the memories — how can I turn my back on them? They beckon in the rush of what WAS and keep me from embracing the possibility of what, actually, IS. Now, when I find myself going back and holding on to the fantasy of the “might-have-beens,” the “if-onlys,” and the “I-did-thats,” I tell myself: now Mandi, what is actually true? What actually happened? How did it really unfold?

It’s such a gift, the truth. What some might see as difficult moments of cleansing and processing, I see as the happiest moments of my life. The freedom of seeing things how they actually are and the unlimited and undefined possibility of now. And sure, the past still exists in my programming, my human suit, patterns and behaviors — but it’s not the key I once thought it was. It can be rewritten. It’s a familiar friend that gives me the gift of awareness, but never love.

My ego told me years ago that burning my journals was a sign of my impending death. That may have intimidated me then, but not now. Death and I navigate this life together — the certainty of its eventual visitation a beckoning to experience life in its greatest magnificence. And it’s true, a part of me will die with these notebooks. But tomorrow, I will open a new one and keep on writing. All of the pages of my life — past, present, and future — unfolding in every moment of my existence.

And may the wishes and dreams written in these pages burn with the fires of creative manifestation into form and being — beginning this new chapter of a greater unfolding. And so it is. 🔥

Thanks to K.E.S. for the title inspiration.