Advice from my Younger Self

There has been a trend recently to offer advice to your younger self. The idea being that if the wiser you could reach back through time and whisper "Back to the Future" style life-changing advice to your younger naive self, what secrets to life success would you impart?  

I use old photographs in my artwork and I'm working on a piece at the moment with this little lady.

This is me on my fourth birthday, caught with, what has come to be known [by my husband] as my "cheeky face".
I look at this little girl and she somehow seems gutsier than the "now me". I mean, for a start she's adopting the Superhero power pose, said to instantly ignite inner confidence. Frankly, I don't do this enough nowadays. Why I felt the need to do it at this moment, who knows?! Though, apparently, I'd had trouble blowing out candles before....But not this time! Number four, I've got you covered! I will not be defeated, little sticks of fire! I will take you out and I'm gonna like it. (As I said, she's gutsier.)

She's also... (and I've never said this about myself before)... OMG adorable! 

I want nothing but good things for her. I want to tell her how she can achieve whatever she wants in life; to never listen to anyone who puts her down; that she deserves happiness and greatness...Which would be a real waste of risking the whole disaster of the space time continuum thingy because she clearly already believes those things. 

My inner critic treats this little girl abhorrently. I am continually putting her down, convincing her she'll never be as good as she wants to be; will never succeed. 
Would I go back in time and say those things to her cute little cheeky face? 
I'm ashamed of my treatment of her. She doesn't deserve my harshness. She deserves nothing but my absolute kindness. I should be her cheerleader, not her heckler. 

We're partners on this journey, her and I.  I can hear her whispering to me through the magic of time "You can do it".  

*adopts the Superhero pose*

For the Artist

I heard this wonderful poem today by Irish poet John O'Donohue. Thought I'd share.  You're welcome.

For the Artist at the Start of Day 

May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.

May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,

A Morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,

May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,

To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,

Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved

Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart

In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.

May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light

To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.

Where do I go from here?

Have you ever been lost? I mean, truly lost? Wondering around a new city alone, you suddenly realise you have no idea where you are or how to return to familiar ground? I'm sure you simply asked a passing stranger for directions (they'll know what to do) and that panic feeling dispersed quickly. Now imagine you're not lost in a city, but a forest... or out at sea where no one is on hand. You are alone. No one can answer your burning question, "where do I go from here?" That black-hole feeling of lost hope grows at such a terrifying rate you fear you'll never escape it. 

That's how I felt when I decided to quit screenwriting. (You can read some blog posts here)
It was a dream I'd pursued for so long, it felt as though I didn't know how to do anything else.
But it was hurting me. Over the course of the last year, my self-belief had been gradually chipped away until nothing was left. 
I sat down at my desk one morning and realised that I didn't have the desire to pursue it any more. I was done.
For those around me, this came as a bolt out of the blue as I'd had a relatively successful year; I was on my way to 'making it'! Yet, to me, I saw failure and it was destroying me. 
I had to stop.

So, I found myself in that dark, lonely place, lost. If I'm not a writer, who am I? The question taunted me, constantly.
I felt I had nothing to give. I was spent. I needed replenishing. 

It was suggested to me gently that I should return to my art. I'd been practising a form of meditation and prayer through art for some years and more recently had been teaching it at my church. I'd found a true sense of peace and communion with God through my canvases; a kind of secret door to communicating with Him. However, as my current depressive state had caused a disconnect between me and my faith, I was resistant to the idea. It took some effort to organise my studio space, but I won't deny there was a sense of 'homecoming' once I'd cracked open the first jar of acrylic medium.

The above image was my first piece.

The first of many.

The beginning of a new journey.