This chapter of We Stand in the Middle begins with a preface - an introduction that’s been steeping in my marrow, wedged in the crevices between conscious thought and dreams, buried beneath the dirt and grime and bone fragments of others’ expectations, and immutable walls of white noise that made it almost impossible for me to hear my own voice calling.
For a long time my life was like that table with the wonky leg at your favorite coffee shop. No matter how hard I tried - no matter how many matchbooks or pieces of folded paper I shoved beneath the too short leg - the table was never stable, never balanced. It was always on the verge of sending all the cups of designer coffee and delicious pastries crashing to the floor.
Why? Because I believed what I was taught - that my survival depended on looking, speaking, and behaving in ways that allowed me to be compared to and compete with others. The better I got at the compare-and-compete game, the deafer I became and the further I drifted from my creative center.
I call that creative center my taproot - the part of myself that is firmly tied to both my spirit and the planet. It’s the part of me that knows why I am here, what I came to do, and how I want to do it. After decades of believing my value lay in pleasing others, I’ve turned my attention back to the rich, dark soil of my Self - back to my taproot. The work I am doing as a result is squarely focused on listening to and exploring the parts of myself I’ve neglected and telling the stories that result.
Which brings me to the final step in this process - trusting that like-minded, like-hearted people like yourselves will find and support my work, so I can find and support others, so that we can all get on with the business of healing ourselves and the planet.
Therefore, I've put my latest novel, We Stand in the Middle as well as a new series of essays I’m starting entitled Back Channels (based on conversations I’ve been having with unexpected and uninvited visitors to my back porch) behind a paywall.
If you feel you’re one of the rag tag and eclectic members of my tribe and can swing the $8.00 bucks a month, join me! If not, that’s okay too. This process has taught me that there are as many ways home as there are lives on the planet.
Much love and hugs,
Jena
“As long as the sun shines and the grass grows there shall be friendship between us, and the feet of the Cherokee shall be toward the East.” - President, Andrew Jackson
Time, I was beginning to realize, did not function at the Light House the way it does in the schedule-driven, nine-to-five world I was used to inhabiting. I’d been at the Light House only seven days but it felt as if months had passed - as if reality had shifted so far off its axis that I wasn’t quite sure where I belonged anymore.
The solid ten hours of sleep had done me good, but by the time I felt ready to tackle the day it was late morning and my body was not happy. Everything from the insides of my thighs and calves to the base of my spine complained when I sat up, and there was the added discomfort of having slept in my clothes. Gritting my teeth, I straightened my clothing, forced myself to stand, and shuffled over to the staircase. There I regarded the steep flight of stairs with dread. There was no getting around it. I had to go down.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Whales in My Backyard to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.