I have started to write this text several times. There were
too many ideas coming at me, and I was trying to catch them all. I felt
panicked, and anxious. I had to find a way to calm myself down, to get back to myself.
I stopped, drew in a long deep breath, held onto it, and then pushed it out
slowly through my nose. Then I gently pressed the tip of my pen to the page,
and the words flowed.
When I was in Montreal last week, I picked up Julia Cameron’s
latest book, The Prosperous Heart: Creating a Life of “Enough”,
which Cameron wrote with her long-time collaborator, Emma Lively. While I have
never met Ms. Cameron in person, she has been — through her writing — a true companion on my writing journey. Some days I
feel like I’m unable to go forward. Other days I doubt myself and my talent. There
are times when things are going well and I just need a little reassurance to
keep going. It is on those good and bad days that I return to Cameron’s books
for just the right dose of medicine. Cameron has a way of putting things,
giving clarity to situations that, to me, feel muddle or murky, and that have
the power to “incapacitate” me.
Long before I pulled myself out of my last relationship, I had
been silently asking the question, “Is Sherbrooke home?” I kept telling myself
that it was home, trying to convince myself that it could be home. Yet, when I’m
honest with myself, I’m not sure that Sherbrooke can be …
home. I’m not taking an interest in the city or its
inhabitants. I’ve pulled myself out of the art collective of which I was a
member. I hole myself up at home. When I need entertainment, to connect with
the world, I pack a bag and, in a mad dash, race off to Montreal or Quebec
City. Something is afoot.
That something afoot is an inconvenient truth: I’m not
really happy in Sherbrooke. I am a dreamer, and I dream big. I worked hard over
the years to have my novel published, and last year that dream passed into
reality. I’ve succeeded, since 2005, at exhibiting and selling my paintings. Writing
music “secretly” for years, I dared to share it with the public, to let my
heart sing. I dream big, yet here, in Sherbrooke, I feel small — that dreams should be
small and contained. From the outside, my life looks good — like I’ve succeeded at
blossoming where I’ve been planted —
but all the while I’ve been yearning for a very different life.
Sometimes it’s easy to stay — in a relationship, a job, a city — because staying is
easier. But what does it mean, what does it give you, if it’s contrary to you — er — my heart’s desire? It means
nothing at all.
As I write, I’m listening to Cissy Houston sing, “Something’s
Bound to Happen When You Pray.” For the first time in several weeks I feel like
I’m starting to realign myself with my values, with what matters most. I’m not
quite sure what my next move is, how I go forward from here. Perhaps the Lord
will make a way … perhaps the answer lies just over yonder. For the moment, all
I can do is pray, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.”
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