Pen to Paper to Keyboard to Blog pt. 2
A few posts ago, I talked about how I had the awesome opportunity to attend my first writing circle, and then shared a super rough piece that I wrote while I was there. A few weeks ago, I not only got to attend my next writing circle, I was given the opportunity to assist in its facilitation. The circle was held at camp and I felt so blessed to be able to share this place I love with an incredible group of empowering and introspective women. We wrote, we did teambuilding, we talked, we laughed, we did high ropes, and it was truly an amazing day. I thought that I would, again, share a really rough piece from my notebook from this writing circle.
Fast Write 3
"Thank you for being the voice of confidence." Beth says.
What? Me?
At what point do I reveal that I was a little anxious the whole time? Who can tell?
Does it serve best to show my anxiety?
Or does it serve best to show my confidence?
My anxiety and fear keeps me safe. It makes me take safety seriously. It makes me pay attention during inspection. It keeps me attentive to people who are scared like me. It allows me to empathize and say, "yes I feel that way too."
My strength and confidence keep me optimistic. I've done this before. I know what I'm doing. I can give extra challenges because I know they can be done.
High ropes is my own personal paradox. I love it, but I hate it. It terrifies me in its power and comforts me in its reliability. It empowers me and drains me. It is the sight of my greatest accomplishments and harshest shortcomings. I feel confident and reassuring, but I also feel anxious and on-edge. I dread going but I don't want to leave.
High ropes yields and incredible pull over the people she ensnares. You can't help but look up. See the jumble of wood and metal and cable and rope. It's the camp cathedral. The place where you have to face your reckoning, where you are struck with wonder and awe and fear at something much, much larger than yourself. The place where you go to be cleansed of your fear. The place where you find support. The posts are your towers, the surrounding woods are the stained glass, the ropes are your god. You can only be pulled up by your own strength, but those that support you will keep you up there. They don't want you to fall. They empower you.
I pray more during an hour at high ropes than I probably do during an hour at mass. I can't help it. I'm not scared of mass. I'm scared of heights. I'm more scared of never conquering heights, though. Of never trying. I can think of no worse fate than that of a Lauren who resigned herself to a life of flatness. No mountains. No towers. No canyons. Flatness would be easier, obviously. Flatness isn't hart to find. But flatness doesn't stir much in me. Even if something is high and makes me scared I can still feel something. It's generally better to feel something not great than to feel nothing at all.
If you are a woman who would like to participate in a writing circle, I'm putting a link here to the organization through which I have had the great opportunity to attend my own writing circles. I can't recommend it highly enough!
Fast Write 3
"Thank you for being the voice of confidence." Beth says.
What? Me?
At what point do I reveal that I was a little anxious the whole time? Who can tell?
Does it serve best to show my anxiety?
Or does it serve best to show my confidence?
My anxiety and fear keeps me safe. It makes me take safety seriously. It makes me pay attention during inspection. It keeps me attentive to people who are scared like me. It allows me to empathize and say, "yes I feel that way too."
My strength and confidence keep me optimistic. I've done this before. I know what I'm doing. I can give extra challenges because I know they can be done.
High ropes is my own personal paradox. I love it, but I hate it. It terrifies me in its power and comforts me in its reliability. It empowers me and drains me. It is the sight of my greatest accomplishments and harshest shortcomings. I feel confident and reassuring, but I also feel anxious and on-edge. I dread going but I don't want to leave.
High ropes yields and incredible pull over the people she ensnares. You can't help but look up. See the jumble of wood and metal and cable and rope. It's the camp cathedral. The place where you have to face your reckoning, where you are struck with wonder and awe and fear at something much, much larger than yourself. The place where you go to be cleansed of your fear. The place where you find support. The posts are your towers, the surrounding woods are the stained glass, the ropes are your god. You can only be pulled up by your own strength, but those that support you will keep you up there. They don't want you to fall. They empower you.
I pray more during an hour at high ropes than I probably do during an hour at mass. I can't help it. I'm not scared of mass. I'm scared of heights. I'm more scared of never conquering heights, though. Of never trying. I can think of no worse fate than that of a Lauren who resigned herself to a life of flatness. No mountains. No towers. No canyons. Flatness would be easier, obviously. Flatness isn't hart to find. But flatness doesn't stir much in me. Even if something is high and makes me scared I can still feel something. It's generally better to feel something not great than to feel nothing at all.
If you are a woman who would like to participate in a writing circle, I'm putting a link here to the organization through which I have had the great opportunity to attend my own writing circles. I can't recommend it highly enough!
Comments
Post a Comment