By Deborah Anne Quibell
Don’t hate me because I pretend to know your struggles.
I am under no such illusion.
But let’s pretend for a minute that you are a sensitive, powerful being searching (whole-heartedly) for your own unique voice amidst a clamor of criticism and societal expectation.
Let’s pretend for a minute that nonsense makes perfect sense to you, that you enjoy redefining standards of peculiar, and burned your “normal t-shirt” in a bonfire lifetimes ago. And then tie-dyed your pants.
Let’s pretend for a minute that if I rummaged through your inner garbage can, I would find the phrase “What are you going to do with your life?” smashed under the rotting remains of “What do you do for a living?”
Let’s pretend for a minute that your life is a creative mash-up of art, magic, and wisdom. And your rehearsed 90-second elevator pitch (for what you do) died a slow, slow death long ago. You now pick any of these words at random: artist, therapist, teacher, sorcerer, magician, healer, writer, painter, photographer, mother, father, tree-lover, priestess, wizard, seeker, dancer, whisperer, dreamer.
Let’s pretend for (another) minute that you wonder, every once in a while (with growing frequency), about the insanity of our collective existence, trying (without much success) to digest all of the ways that we break ourselves, and others, and our planet down. But even amidst all of the misery, your heart (somehow) obsessively seeks out (and always manages to find) the beauty and fairies and wonder and stardust that remain.
Let’s pretend for (one last) minute that you trip, now and then, over some swarming doubt and sense of unworthiness. That, while confident and strong, you question your path (though not always) and success in the world. Without consciously choosing it, the muffled voices of judgment sneak their way in to the soft grass of your creative psyche. You know you could be living a larger life than the one you currently inhabit, but for some reason, you get stuck. In a blind moment, you look for approval and affirmation from others, but then slap yourself awake again.
Here is a recipe that was delivered to me by a gnome. A magical little man with a big nose, red vest, hot temper, and a lot to say. He delivered this message to heal me, but let’s pretend (for really one last minute) that it may also be healing for you.
In any moment that you feel unworthy…
Take your magnificent heart in your hands and squeeze out the puddle of nonsense that has accumulated there from years of holding back.
You are your own kind of remarkable,
Able to make marks upon the world
in unique and astounding ways.
You do not have to remain
as any participatory part
of a conversation that keeps you small.
Anyone who does not understand your magic
simply stumbled in to the wrong show.
Lock eyes with the ones who marvel
and continue on.