"moo"

I once asked someone whose wisdom and opinion I highly regard, to have a look at my blog and give me some honest critique and feedback. I’ve had the faithful few tell me that they love my writing and like every entry I put up, which I so appreciate. I keep telling my husband that his telling me he likes my writing is like my mother telling me she thinks I’m beautiful - because she has to, she’s my mother!  Basically it’s moo; in Joey terms – “like a cow’s opinion, it doesn’t matter...it’s moo!” Of course I don't really mean that his opinion doesn't matter because, truthfully, his opinion is the one I care for the most. My husband's, not Joey's. Seriously though, I'm joking.

But this person whose wisdom and opinion I, still, highly regard came back to me rather disappointed, at least that was my interpretation. In a nutshell I was told that they felt I should be more honest, about myself, share the real me. I mistook this advice and left with a sour taste, feeling as though what I had written thus far was not honest or real, that my voice in writing was mute. So, whose voice was I expressing? I felt like I didn’t know myself and I felt like the one thing I thought I was developing into was failing. Allowing people to read your thoughts, is extremely nerve wrecking. It almost feels like heart surgery, but the emotional kind. Needless to say, this well-meaning advice left me feeling choked and I was unable to write anything remotely honest or real for a long while after. You think you want to hear honest critique, but really you want people to tell you how amazing you're doing and get showered with praise, encouraging you to keep on going just the way you already are. 

Slowly I started to live a little bit more indifferent and then I became a little bit more sad, somewhat consistently.

Indifference is an unnerving thief of our lives.

As a young girl, I had developed this idea that I would one day write a story about my life. I remember sitting in my Dutch grandparents living room one summer, with a pen and paper in hand, thinking of how to start my masterpiece. The reason for this idea was that I had an innate belief that my life, which I had yet to live, would be worth writing about; a story people would want to hear. Yet, as of now, at 29 years of age, much of my life has become an abyss of indifference and time lost. Fear had engulfed the girl who once believed her life was worth telling.  The thing is, though I was loved, I cannot recall being purposefully told that I could do or be anything I put my mind to. I did not live with a sense of acceptance in my uniqueness; I was ashamed of it. I felt like I had failed in life already, no matter what I might try and accomplish. I already felt like a failure. However, I was unaware that this was the case. These are things you only realize when you reflect back many years later, and begin to compare your life to the lives and experiences of others. When you don’t know any different, you don’t know what else to expect.

A couple years later, as I read over this critique from the person whose advice and wisdom I highly regard, I suddenly read it in a new light. The tone in the response was not negative at all, but quite the opposite. All this time, they were trying to encourage me to keep on going but to try and open up even more so. Because deep down people want to feel like they can relate to another’s honesty, that they’re not alone with their thoughts. This person wanted more people to see the value that they had seen inside me. They worded it as “specialness”.

Though I cannot change the turns I’ve already taken, I can begin to look around more before I cross or choose not to cross the street. I want to live a life that will give me stories to tell my grandchildren one day, stories they'll beg to hear over and over again. I hope that my life will encourage them to risk and love a lot in life. That means I need to get moving, even if it’s slow.

I just don’t want to stand still anymore. 

Let's all try and live a little bit more raw...

I hope that was more honest.