That Still Small Voice

I have written before about how I started this blog, just over a year ago to promote a business that I was planning to start. I was writing because I thought I had to.

Before long, I was writing because it felt like home. A home where I could organize my hyper-active mind, share what I had always been bursting to say and create in a way I had never imagined. And then starting a business became impossible as I knew that it would get in the way of my writing.

Even though, I had no idea what I wanted to do, I knew that I had to write.

It still amazes me that I could get to this age and not know that I would love this. It is even more amazing to me that I had,as far as I knew, no desire to write at all.

This past week has been one long series of small, serendipitous occurrences that leave me wondering how it is that I so often get caught up in the hectic pace of my life and forget that writing for me is so much more than just another hobby that I have picked up to pass the time. (Not that any of my hobbies are that, but this one is different.) It is clear to me now that there is a purpose to my writing, even when I am not sure what it is.

I am connecting the dots backwards, paying attention to other small things that have occurred over the course of my adult life and it seems so clear that The Universe was steering me here all along.

I am remembering the moments over the years when my best friend used to tell me that he thought I should be a writer. It didn’t make sense to me because I didn’t feel any compelling desire to write as I did to create art, to make music, to sew.

My therapist almost begged me to start a blog nearly a dozen years ago.

I thought she was crazy!

There were long rambling emails to distant friends that turned my day to day life into hilarious adventures, and work faxes that were far more creative than they needed to be, but made suppliers laugh and write creative replies back.

There has also been compulsive journaling since I knew how to make letters into words.

And then, there were those first nights walking along the frozen river two years ago when suddenly I felt as though I was being told to write. I ignored the feeling until it went away.

And so, hard times took over driving me to plan a business I was never destined to start… it really doesn’t pay to be stubborn.

Thinking about these events, (and they were events even though I didn’t realize it) combined with what has occurred this past week; I have come to a conclusion.

It is far more dangerous not to listen to your heart than it ever could be to follow it.

Not listening has not saved me from pain nor sorrow nor failure. Not listening has not made me feel safe nor happy. Not listening has not made me successful.

And now, though I am no more certain of what the future will bring to me. I am certain of one thing.

That voice, is NOT to be ignored.

I have no doubt, that we all have it. I have no doubt that if we allowed ourselves to be still enough to hear, and brave enough to listen we would all find ourselves on a better path. A path that would not only lead us to greater joy, security, love, but a path that would lead to all of the things that we need to contribute and share what we came here to contribute and share.

And that would make life better for everyone.