Bilkish Vahed

Rebellion & Romance

Tag: self-expression

Your Life’s Work

As I drifted into wakefulness this morning, I was suddenly aware of a faint stream of excitement. What, I wondered softly? 

With more awareness I remembered that today I wanted to build a few posts on my new Facebook public page, to add a line or two to round off a piece that I was writing yesterday. How come, I demanded now fully awake, how come this “small” stuff was filling me with joy, real joy? 

Ok, I’m sorry, I’m probably not making much sense. You see last evening I was reading the work of some spiritual luminaries who describe how they arrived at a sense of purpose in their lives, and as a result of that came to be doing their life’s work, with all the accoutrement of success, like bestselling books and solid income. 

I went to bed with a feeling of discomfort – how was I to figure out what my life’s work is? So onerous. If I hadn’t figured it out yet in my fifty-seventh year, was there really any hope? Heaviness, I felt.

But this morning, joy. Joy about writing pieces that don’t earn me any money, that at best are read by a few. Was joy the hint that there was something more to these small pieces? I’ve been scribbling all my life. My writing project has remained largely underground with forays into public spaces that I’ve regularly abandoned.

Therein lies the simple but courage-calling-forth dictate: Continue on consistently and build momentum. Layering effort is what builds critical mass. And probably only after some measure of success is achieved, do we speak of doing our life’s work without others laughing in our faces.

In the ruckus of actual, imagined or perceived rejection; or worse still as Elizabeth Gilbert names it – being ignored – the creating must go on.

Naysayers, Killjoys

Telling other people my dreams hardly ever works out well. No sooner have I begun – exhilaration brimming in my mind, pleasure tingling in my toes – that they rush to caution me, to tell me all the reasons why my idea is doomed to fail. 

So and so, the lady next door, some tycoon celebrity thinker has told a story of exactly the pitfalls at the centre of my idea, already explained just why my desire is doomed. Or their very own experience points to the absolute and sure unfeasibility of what my heart yearns for. Best not to try, they say, concern marking their brow, my best interests sitting high up on their chests.

Killjoys and Naysayers are not out to stab me. They present as guardians of my soul, but their cautionary tales swiftly snuff and wipe out my sparkle. Dry up the swell of my virgin dreams.

Hold quiet I tell my chafing self. Be still and hold your tongue. Let your ideas grow and become, so others get to see something real. They need to actually see first. Oh but how my heart longs to tell all, to frolic with another in the joy of expectation, before any of it has come to life!

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