When I was a kid, I loved to write. By the time I was in third grade, I was writing stories that were dozens of pages. I declared in 4th grade to Mrs. Ritter, that I couldn’t write short stories like the rest of the class, and she granted me permission to write my very first novel. I had an electric type writer from my mom and spent a significant amount of my childhood writing stories that took me away from my family.
See my parents, while financially secure, were emotionally unavailable. It was a weird environment to grow up in, sometimes I felt like a guest and others just invisible. Both my parents had a preferred kid, and I wasn’t it. This made me timid, and quiet…until I found drugs. I was pretty wild in my teen years and later as a young adult. It wasn’t until I hit my thirties that I found sanity through meditation and then a regular practice once I hit 40.
In my thirties I gave up writing and I think that is a significant event that I have been ignoring for years. I love to write, but I find it is harder to do it well the older I get. I’m not sure what it is but the novel I have been trying to write lately feels bigger than myself and I think I am getting in my own head about it. To distract myself I have been focusing on my TM practice.
Speaking of which, my TM has been interesting lately and I’ve been thinking that I might be astral traveling at times, though differently than what I have read about. There are times when I meditate that I am floating through the stars, it feels as though my eyes are open, and I am looking around. I have been researching it for my novel, and I am timidly trying it in the mornings when I can drag myself upright. It occurred to me that I am traveling to the orb, but I’m not ready to see it so I haven’t. It is beautiful where I am, dark with the pinpricks of light shining through, orange and gold in color. Sometimes there are greens and blues, but all the time there is a sense of moving through space, that I am traveling.
Until a dog barks, or the turtles splash into the water and I am brought back to the surface of existence. It sometimes takes a long minute to get back in, and sometimes I have a different experience all together. A few nights ago, there were walls, lots of whitewashed brick walls that were in motion, it was one of those moments where I wondered if I was looking through someone else’s eyes.
So, it’s time to give the inner child what they desire. As an adult, I can commit the time, and she can commit the creativity. I think the desire is still there on both our parts, it’s just a matter of the adult me giving the child what it needs. I do it at work, I should be able to do it for myself. It’s a matter of priorities and if it makes the child happy, and keeps her from allowing in the darkness, then we can both benefit.
