It’s 2:30am Hawaiian time and I’m sitting legs folded on my bed. There’s a mixture of flowers gathered in vases around the room. Some white and yellow daisies sit on the nightstand a foot away and I wonder why it seems to take a momentous amount of effort to write these days. Almost two years have passed since I was writing daily.
I don’t know my intention of writing anymore. I struggle with how much I see the “I”s and want to remove myself from the conversation. I want to talk about experiences without making them about me. Out of shame, I shy away from writing. But that’s just my ego cringing at another spot it despises of itself and wants to push away.
I’m afraid of dogma and rigidity. If I meditate daily or trust wholeheartedly in the teachings, I fear that I’ll become blind and disconnected from others. I also fear sounding stupid or irrelevant. With the amount of noise there is on social media, why would anyone want to read what I write? Everyone is shouting, desperately trying to gain attention. Views, likes, it’s all the same. Yet, I’m afraid I’ll fall to that pattern as well.
It makes me wince to write “my motivation is to help others”. So many people just want to “help”. They want to spread their views as absolute and reject anything that challenges them. Am I not desiring helping others through my own possibly foggy lens? But we cannot wait for perfection.
For now I’ll continue sitting and writing.