I am here in bed, feeling my body as a whole.
Now, after a week of constant flare ups, my pain levels are at moderate. That is, in my world, a GOOD thing.
I have learned over the years to not let pain keep me from creating. From pain always flows the most meaningful art, to me. From pain always come words of urgency and depth.
Pain isn’t a blessing in itself, but getting to know myself through it, is.
And now I am in a moderate pain phase I realize how much, at times, I become it. What I mean by that is that I am often defined by it, shaped by it in ways that limit me.
I am, in some ways, a recluse behind thewalls of pain, afraid to step into the world because it might bring more.
That is what is making me sick of pain. It was never meant to be a prison. And as I write it, I know I shouldn’t see it as such.
Pain is a teacher, first and foremost, and I get to sit in the classroom and learn to be myself. To learn to give the frustration, anger, sadness and every other emotion under the sun and moon a place in my life. To stop burying them, but live through them the best way I can.
Because when I do? I can create. Today I wrote a scene and a half on a story that I suddenly thought about. A story that has slept in the dusty corners of my writing folder for longer than I care to admit.
It is a children’s book. A book filled with magic. A book that, after writing on it today, is showing me something I thought I had lost. Magic.
I believe in magic. I believe in the wonders of in nature that can show me that everything is possible.
Even believing in yourself despite all the arrows seemingly pointing in another direction.
And if that is what my pain can give me, I can accept, love and embrace my pain. Because, man, what an awesome gift that is.
All in all, my pain has taught me a big lesson this week, if I can’t be fully in it, dive deep in all the beautiful ugliness it holds within, I am losing sight on myself.
And that is worse than any pain in the world.