Over the last two years, I’ve felt a strong urge to get clarity with my life. What should I do with my limited time on earth? What’s my purpose? How can I find meaning in what I do?
I experimented with projects and hobbies. Along the way, I read, meditated, and tried new things.
Eventually I found my way to writing.
It started off with scribbling thoughts in a notebook when I went through a rough patch. Gradually, I realized I needed to first see what was going on in my life before I could untangle the knots.
Journaling provided that space.
As the journaling habit became more engrained, I felt a natural pull to start writing more every day. Though I met that call with skepticism. I started many blogs, journals, and projects over the last 15 years. None of them lasted more than a few months. Why would this time be different?
I have doubts. What am I supposed to write? Who am I to write? Who cares about what I have to say? English is not even my first language!
Why should I spend energy on this? What’s the reward?
Yet with all the hesitation, my heart yearns to respond to the call. It’s an invitation. It’s time to accept it. How about I go along with it and see happens?
Since the beginning of 2022, I have been writing 20+ minutes a day without breaking the chain. Every day I am learning something new. Writing teaches me to pay attention to my life in new ways. I appreciate other people’s writing in brand new ways. I see the the hard work it takes behind the scene to produce insightful writing.
When I approach writing as play, it can be light, fun, and enjoyable. I don’t have to grip my pen so hard. At the end of the day, I don’t choose the words. They choose me. All I have to do is be mindful when the words come, create space, and let them dwell.
When I write for no one, there is no disappointment.
Why build an expectation that everything I do must be profitable? Can’t I do something for its own sake?
I can just write.