Battles on Mount self with the little "s"

Until recently I have never considered myself a writer. UGG, UGG, UGG. A writer? Me? Writers are those people that can keep me glued to my chair for hours as my emotions ride the rollercoaster of whatever images and nuances and feelings charge through me. Reading a book is similar to sex. Sometimes it is just a quick read, sometimes you sneak to the end because you just got to know how it ends, sometimes you throw it out, and sometimes you just sit back and enjoy the mystery of the emotional ups and downs that lasts for hours. And like sex, some wordy experiences are memorable, others you want to forget, and others you totally forget.

And then there's poetry. Double UGG. I yawn when I think about poetry. Reading poetry is hard work because in a small amount of words so much is said. Stories have the luxury of explanation. Poetry is a story in shorthand; cryptic shorthand filled with symbolism. Now my worst fears have come true. I am writing poetry (although I actually think of them as lyrics, a poetic song. What? Changing the name makes it more palatable?). I have joined all those blogging, writing fiends in spewing their thoughts and feelings on the internet. Am I crazy?

And so I fight my inner "Cruella" who wants to label me a no-talented, vain, idiotic, crazy, stupid, inarticulate nobody. It is a continuous battle. This battle is really the "self with a little s" or the ego, striving to keep change, growth and expansion in check. The ego likes to maintain the status quo. The ego is very smart in developing whatever mechanisms it can for survival. Whenever the ego feels that it is losing its place in the battle it rears its head. And because I believe that naming things gives them less power, I have named my little self or bad ego "Cruella". Cruella leads the battle with a horde of beasts that come in the forms of magnifying events, forecasting future happenings, labeling, musterbating, blaming the self or others, discounting the positive, jumping to conclusions, over generalizing. No longer are these mechanisms serving any purpose and a new battle is on; the "self" against the "Self". According to Jung the "Self" is the whole; the integrated individual's personality. It is when the unconscious and the conscious come together. Did I just digress? And to think that a very good friend paid me the highest compliment imaginable when he said that he loved the way I thought, the way that I processed information.

Through a process of being curious, I have discovered that poetry is one way that I can let the spiritual or the unconscious part of me have a conscious form (see I didn't digress). While Cruella is at my side as I write, the battle is stemmed with the emergence of the Self. The Self becomes bigger and more powerful as I tune in to what I want to write. When you engage at the Self level you can't stay the same. That's the way it works. Writing in this manner gets me to talk about things on my own terms, in a poetic way, in a way that’s inspired from the authentic Self. I am stunned at this urge to write, a form of expression that I detested. And not only do I write, but I actually make it public. I am crazy after all!

What I love the most is receiving feedback. I thought that I would be defensive when people read my poetry because currently my writing is autobiographical. What hurts the most is when I ask friends to read it and I get no response. Then my "Cruella" greedily climbs Mount self with the little s as I think, "They obviously think that I can't write but they are too polite to say something" or "I am too intense" or "blah blah." But that's Cruella and her hordes at work and knowing this provides a way for me to be less judgmental on myself and others. In addition, I have more curiousity about myself as opposed to judgment. I love hearing how different words mean different things to people, how some poems touch some people and not others. Some people think that I am dark while others see beyond that to a person who is seeking and being curious and brave. Most people want to talk to me about the poems and what they mean. They also see it as a way to connect with me about their lives. I have found that while I feel vulnerable I am more approachable. Sharing my writing, while scary, has provided me with humor, trust, connectedness, and deeper friendships. My expression through writing, poetic or blogging comes from my authentic self and when I put it out there it is free. It is free from being personal, it is free from Cruella.

Not all is perfect in this growing and unmapped world of mine. Cruella continues to be happy as she finds new battles to fight on Mount self with the little s. I would never have guessed that something I was so scared of has become a compass that is helping me find my way. It's been about learning to recognize when the "self" is readying for battle. It's been about discovery and remapping my thinking. The "Self" is released from the battle.

I use the words of Pablo Neruda's poem titled Poetry, to express what it feels like to be in a creative space...

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda