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I’ll never leave you again

October 6, 2016

 

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When I was a little girl, from 4 or 5 to around 9, I wrote.

I wrote to understand the captivating light glowing within me. I wrote to feed my deep curiosity, growing by the day. I wrote to feel a sense of liberation like no other. I wrote for the pure love of it.

My pen would carry itself with the poems that lay within me, the words that were ready to see the light of day.

It felt like a we. A true partnership of the best kind.

Together, in my bedroom, we would embark on magical journeys both mesmerized by where we would end up.

An adventure between me and the home within. The home that housed the precious truths planted deep inside. The truths that had been entrusted to me to nurture and share with the world.

Like a popcorn maker frenetically popping, there was a free flowing supply of words. Unfiltered, uninhibited, pure and fresh.

This time in my bedroom seemed completely normal. I firmly believed that it was what everyone did when they went home from school. Because, why wouldn’t they?

It was where I felt so free, so swept up in the spirit of my being, so at ease, so utterly alive and energised.

It was my home within my home.

 

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I can’t remember exactly when it stopped, I think it was gradual.

There was more schoolwork, more worries, and more expectations around what I needed to do and who I needed to become. My head became fuller.

That bedroom turned from a sacred space in which to be joyfully alive, to a functional workshop for homework and sleep to rest my weary body.

I took on the words of others, the thoughts, the worries, the fears, and the expectations. And of course, I started to feel further and further from home.

At school I worked hard and did well, always getting top marks. English and Art were judged to be my weakest subjects and I assumed the uncreative label.

What nobody ever told me, and what I didn’t realize on my own, was that I was trying to do English. To think about it and work it out. To follow the rules. To switch off my heart and home and attack it like a maths equation to be solved by the mind.

I felt the pressure to be good, to succeed in their eyes. Literally no pleasure, no freedom, no joy.

I had taken myself so far out the picture in my attempt to create someone else’s dull-to-me picture, that I had no idea how incredible it could look.

I was deemed a scientist, a mathematician, a hard worker, a future doctor or researcher, a valuable member of society.

I followed the grey path, or more accurately, let myself be lead down it. It was on that path I travelled until, at the last moment, my inner home could be quieted no more.

Her words, and the promise for a better life that came with them, gave me the strength to rebel. There was no choice.

I switched subjects and allowed the compelling and deeply wise woman within to lead the way.

It was scary, there was shame, there was fear and, my goodness, was there excitement. We were together again.

Her path enveloped me in people, understanding them though Anthropology and Behavioural Psychology at university. Made for me, and yet never heard of in the world I came from.

A 10-year career in Human Resources, Executive Coaching and Leadership Development all furthered my curiosity and let me bring more of myself into the world.

But it wasn’t enough for her, or I. So, after many twists and turns, 9 years ago, she gave me the courage to run my own coaching business. At first doing it the way I thought it should be done, and then letting it truly be an expression of me.

Now, surely that’s creativity?

What I now know is that creativity is a way to express our inner truths, our unique voice, in a way that only we can.

So, of course, we are all creative. Beautifully creative when we access our inner truths and let ourselves be lead by them.

To say that still makes me feel emotional, the fact that I denied that precious voice within me for so long, still pains me.

Yet, when I lay bed bound from chronic fatigue 8 months after my son was born, it was that voice, and the creative expression of it in the form of writing, that saved me. That lead me home, back to that young girl, back to her freedom, back to her joy. Back to what matters in my life; my calling as a mother, a wife and a guide to bringing people home to their true lives.

She had never left me, she guided me through the twists and turns of life, back home.

 

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I made the big moves, a new continent, the lush English countryside and a business guiding women on their way home. And I welcomed writing.

I wrote programs, articles and two personal development books but something was missing.

Then I met Anna Lovind. A soul sister and lady whose path overlapped with mine in so many ways.

I had found myself, knew this girl within me and was ready to channel its creative muse and share the journey. All the time doing it our way, the way that reflects my true voice. Anna’s course is what turned it into action.

The Creative Doer, so aptly named, was the final step home to the writer within. Joining the dots between the world of my free spirited inner home and the world of making it happen.

It’s a blessing to have Anna’s friendship in my life and the friendship of my beautiful home within.

Now I can call myself creative (as can you, regardless of who you are).

Now I can come out of the closet and call myself a writer and let my words flow freely knowing how needed they are in helping others on their journey home.

And all of this, because I came back home.

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