Postcard #1 – Permission

Counting Crows
Counting Crows

Raven, who came by five weeks ago to tell me to play, has come to Camp Nanowrimo with me.  He is whispering in my ear right now.  Say yes, he says and dips his head up and down, Give yourself permission.

I have been writing steadily since before last summer.  First my book draft, then the blog, now the book revision and blog at the same time.  I am writing.  I am a Writer.  Really, I have been writing stories since Grade Three.  But apparently I have not actually given myself permission to be a Writer.

I didn’t know that.  I thought if I was doing this, permission was implied.  Not, according to Raven.

My family and friends all know what I am doing and creating.  I have their steady support and interest.

Not that I asked for it or needed to ask for it, but I have full permission from the Universe, from Source.  I experience it every day in the gifts that come my way.  Time, resources, inspiration, support, response to what I create.

So I have permission from all except myself.

I love to write, draw, create.  It is joy and play to me.  It is my work.

Some old pattern in me thinks that joy and play cannot mix with work.  Work has to be serious.  Work has to be hard.  Work is not to be enjoyed.

Well, I say crap to that.  I am making a different choice and creating a new pattern for myself.

I choose that my writing is my work.  I choose that my work is play.  I choose to keep writing and playing with love and joy and passion.  I give myself full permission to write, to play with my writing, to love my writing, to enjoy my writing.

This is my place in the world, at my work table in my studio.  Paper, pens, laptop.  Head, heart, words.  The view out my window.  This is permission.  I am a Writer.

I have all I need.

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Mentioned in this post:

Camp Nanowrimo    http://campnanowrimo.org    campnanowrimo

Play, says Raven

7 Crows, a Secret Never To Be Told
7 Crows, a Secret Never To Be Told

 

Last Thursday night, I dream of Raven.

He arrives out of a red gash in the earth.  A hillside, the earth, cut open with an ax, a large square piece flying away like chips of wood from a chopped tree.

Out he flies.  He doesn’t look like Raven.  He looks like a red parrot.  In the dream I try to give him to my husband.  But no, Raven claims me instead, flips back his parrot disguise like a cape and looks me level in the eyes.

Tells me, Play.

Then he hops onto my shoulder.  He should feel heavy, sitting there, grinning and clacking and gurgling at me.  My body is prepared to feel weight tipping my balance sideways.

No.  No weight.  Play has no weight.  Play is feather and cloud and dance.  Play is all Raven.

I wake.

I am not playing enough.  I have been much too serious the last few weeks, and have forgotten play.  I have slipped back into my old pattern of duty and work.  A grim perfection of doing what needs doing before I allow myself time to do what I love–write and draw and imagine and read.

No wonder I have been waking each morning grouchy and out of sorts with the world and my life.  I choose and move myself out of this mood each morning.  I remind myself that happiness is a choice, and that I choose happiness, love, and joy in my life.

I have been forgetting to add that I also choose play, fun, and laughter.  I do get to these sometime during each of my days, but not enough.  Not soon enough and not for long enough.

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