Write...just write

In 2000, I suffered the worst injury of my life.  The Achilles tendon on my left foot snapped on stage during a performance of Death of a Salesman at Keyano Theatre.  I didn't know that it had snapped; in fact, I carried on with the performance, hobbling from set piece to set piece in my role as Biff Loman, the son of the travelling salesman, Willy.  After the show, still not knowing what had happened, I went to the cast party, put up my leg, iced the injury and celebrated with everyone.  It was the following morning at the hospital that I found out why I was in such pain and why my foot was dangling from my ankle in such a strange way.

I went to Edmonton - though I have no memory how - had surgery, and began the long slow crawl to recovery.  At some point, I received a get well gift from Tom Peacocke, the director of the show.  It was a copy of the acclaimed book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron.  I think I need to return to it for some reason, as it popped into my brain this morning.  However, the one thing it inspired me to do was write my "morning pages" - stream of consciousness writing.  Essentially, it was a daily brain dump of whatever was floating around on the surface of my grey cells.

Write....just write.  Don't stop.

I think that in the same way I keep painting.  I made a decision back in 2014, that I often speak about when giving tours or talking about my wild colour painting, to commit myself to painting at least one painting a week no matter how crazy busy I got in life.  I've stayed true to that commitment, and then some.  I keep writing, too.

This early morning blog writing practice is, in a way, my therapy, my way of navigating life, figuring things out, and listening to the universe.  In the intake of air just before I start writing, ideas, questions, or images bubble up to the surface.  I believe this has grown into an essential growth mechanism for me.  In writing...just writing...stuff comes out, gets explored, and, in some cases, moves to action.

I still have my morning pages hidden away is some dusty notebook squirrelled away on the shelf.  One day when I'm old and wise (to quote an Alan Parsons Project classic), I will need to pull it out, dust if off, and see what was bubbling up to the surface when I was 33.


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