And so she still writes
lest the ceiling comes crashing.
How else could she breathe?
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How Else Could She Breathe? | Haiku #27
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How Do I Write Again? | Haiku #26
I have forgotten
the ways of pen and paper;
the grief is still here.
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Your Love Completes Me | Haiku #10
Peace is waking up
to your voice every morning.
Your love completes me.
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Post Pandemic Reflections: Creativity As Self-Care
When I think of the last two years that have passed me by so quickly, I can’t help but feel a little anxious. I wonder what I’ve been able to accomplish in the last year. Of course, I know I must be compassionate with myself, the last couple of years have been nothing short of bizarre: a global pandemic and quarantine, political and socio-economic stressors, and in the middle of all this, the tryst with academics, work, social relationships, and mental health. Whew. But this has not stopped the voice in my head from trying to measure my worth by how productive I was, and by how much I have to show for the time that has passed. Well, I’ll tell you what I have to show: nothing. zilch. nada.
This is not to say I have not done any work. It’s quite the opposite: I have probably never worked this hard in my life to ensure stability and safety, while also managing my existing responsibilities. Like most people around the world, I had to work hard to navigate pandemic circumstances. I worked especially hard on my academic and social engagements while maintaining my health, be it physical, mental, or spiritual. All of my time went into meeting various social expectations, work or academic deadlines, and health requirements. Like everyone around me, I was doing so much. Yet there was not much to show for all that effort, except maybe that I survived.
Right. I am still alive. I need to physically remind myself of this. I survived. I survived in a time when so many didn’t. And I’m grateful.
But this doesn’t mean that I have to ignore the things that hurt me. Most of us had to cradle disappointment, grief, or anger in some form or the other. We dealt with death, missed opportunities, muted celebrations, and the pangs of communal loneliness. And this is only the beginning of the list. There was so much taken from us during this pandemic that it feels insincere trying to even talk about it.
How does one move past these things? I’m thinking of the mental and physical trauma of a global pandemic that nobody was prepared for; the weight of being stuck in a system that measures our worth by how successful we are; the never-ending friction between the person that we are inside and the various societal expectations and restrictions imposed upon us. The fears, whether they be financial, social, or related to health, that we have learned to now carry with us everywhere. How do I even begin to try and take a step forward from here?
Though these aren’t questions with straightforward answers, after much trial and error, I have found comfort and value in privileging creativity as a central self-care tool. Of course, please remember that no amount of self-care can replace professional help where and when required. My message here is that using creativity is what helped me on my post-pandemic mental health journey.
So, what is creativity? I like to think of creativity as a condition that allows you to take existing ideas or problems and then produce something out of it. This can be through anything, whether it be an artistic or quotidian activity. Though this is quite vague a definition, it allows me to acknowledge that I am a creator just by choosing to live this life. I can take what I already know or have and make decisions to create something out of it. Now, how is this different from what we’re doing every day? Being conscious of our ability to create reminds me that I have the power to decide things for myself. In this way, I can direct and make my reality.
Creativity is thus in many ways the ultimate self-care tool. It allows you to remember that you are in control. This opens up a space for you to come to terms with your reality, which means acknowledging your current circumstances and even your needs. The next step is the actual creation using the resources you have, whether they are internal or external: whatever you end up creating, tangible or intangible, this process is a form of expression. It is often self-expression, but it is also sometimes a response to the things we experience in our lives.
I also like to think of creativity as a reliable and healthy long-term coping mechanism because it means I want things to be better. It means I can imagine a better future for myself and for others. A future that is rooted deeply in personal power, freedom, and growth. At the end of the day, no matter what we choose to do or not to do, by virtue of being human beings, we are filled with a limitless potential to create. Therefore, it is not how much we produce or what we produce that determines our value; rather, it is our ‘being’, or more ambitiously, our existence as our truest selves, whatever that means for each of us, that matters.
If all this sounds like naive optimism, I can understand. But after years of trying to figure out what helps me cope, I have found my answer in my reflections on creativity. It has been my reminder that we are all worthy just as we are, and the best thing we can do for ourselves is — just be ourselves.
My own journey has been full of highs and lows, peppered with periods of happiness and great self-esteem as well as periods of grief or excruciating doubt. Am I really a creator? And if I am, am I truly creating something valuable or meaningful enough to share? Someone once told me that we are all perpetually creating: we are expressing our creativity all the time through the little things we do in life, and all we need to do is acknowledge that and learn to systematically channel our energies in the ways we want. I like to think that everything we create is inherently valuable. But what has meaning and what doesn’t, is up to you. If you’re worried about what others think, that’s more than often out of your control. Self-care is, after all, about taking care of one’s own self.
It took me a long time to expand my definition of creativity beyond something like writing, doing art, or even making a business product. I felt like my creativity was usually best expressed through my writing: novels, poetry, letters, translation, anything with words. But in the early days of the pandemic, I found peace in doing nothing but listening to music all day and then playing the ukulele or keyboard while singing, to the dismay of my neighbours and family, at the top of my lungs. There was yet another packet of time when I indulged in gardening, trying to follow the life cycle of tomato and chilli pepper plants. Now, I have found myself drawn to social media as a form of self-expression and communication with others. Even when I’m not writing on it, there are a hundred other ways in which you can express yourself or engage in creative processes on these platforms. Exploring these things has been my latest engagement.
But figuring out what I want to do has not always been easy or intuitive. Sometimes, it takes a lot of reflection, time, and patience. And then accepting whatever it is that I want is usually even harder. Not only do I have to let go of social expectations, but I also have to decide that I am done negotiating with myself about the little details, waiting for the best time, for inspiration to strike, or for when I am ‘free’. I just keep waiting for the perfect conditions. Now I know that I can decide when the time is right. Once I truly understand what is in my control and what is not, I can let go. I can just trust myself and just do.
This blog right here is me learning to trust myself. This space has gone through so many changes in the last nine years. There have been periods where I did nothing here purely because I was afraid that I could never write the perfect article. There were times when I did not write because I didn’t think I deserved the title of writer. I didn’t think I was good enough. But time, a lot of self-care, great conversations with amazing people, and many inspiring books and essays have brought me to where I am right now: a state of conscious creative movement, progress, and self-care.
I began my journey back into writing (as with my many other creative pursuits) with baby steps. Starting is usually the most difficult part, especially when you’re coming out of the deep end of mental health struggles. You feel like you’ve lost so much of your capacity to create; you feel like you’re just too tired to do anything; you feel like you can never match up to your peers. But I’m mounting my fears and my struggles with small, but sure steps forward. I now know that it doesn’t even have to be the best step. Just forward.
To this end, a year ago, I started sharing freewriting exercises once a month for 12 months on this blog. It’s nothing big. They were small, nonsensical blog posts that probably do not make sense to anybody but me (though I will admit, they’re losing meaning to me as well now). But staying consistent with the exercise each month, posting it online for accountability at a time when nobody expected it from me, and seeing the project to fruition, all of this has done wonders for my self-esteem. It has helped me remember why I liked writing and the creative process in the first place.
I now try to stay committed to acknowledging, appreciating, and loving the person that I have become. I am inspired by the creative being that already exists within me, and I hope only that I continue honouring it going forward.
What has your creative journey been looking like? Have you had a chance to get in touch with your inner creative being recently?
This article was originally published in October, 2021. After much reflection and growth, and more importantly, after feeling much better health-wise, I have rewritten the article and re-published it in 2023.
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December: Freewriting #12
A year is coming to an end, yet oddly, I feel no sadness in letting go. Maybe I’ve just been ready already. Ready to move, ready to be accountable.
But first, I must finish this. In peace, with friends in an unfamiliar land with the unfamiliar breeze. The trees remind me of home, but the sea smells like nothing. This is not home. Not yet.
I carry complicated feelings with me everywhere I go. My heart breaks with each day, but I must raise the strength to keep moving on my own. I cannot sit or sleep or cry or complain without feeling like a stranger in my own home. Is this what life is supposed to be like? It’s poetically tragic, these moments that come and go. The life I dreamed of as a child seems farther and farther away from reach, but maybe I’m closer to the truth now.
Where did all my enthusiasm go? Bring it back and make a charm of it for me, so that I may look at it and remember the world is mine. So that I might stop feeling so empty and like I’m embodying paucity itself.
That dream frightened me. I wish you were not in it. I think of the other way of life often, yearning for a little normalcy. But I realize this isn’t in the cards for me, but oh, what wonderful dreams. And oh, how it hurts me to let them all go.
The year ends on the bitter note of sickness. But at least I am warm and somewhat surrounded by love. What is somewhat? Just not what I am used to, or what I think I need. I see why people often look for things they once felt with their family. Those invisible things feel like home. It is familiar and easy. A glass of leftover homemade wine, maybe, and silent prayers as the fireworks begin.
Happy New Year.
Freewriting in this online space for the past one year has been immensely liberating. It has helped me see that I can write for myself and not worry about creating something perfect. It is me as I am, whether or not it makes sense and whether or not I am speaking fact or fiction.
I haven’t decided if I’ll continue this practice this year. Stay tuned.
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November: Freewriting #11
Feeling is the secret.
The biggest difference between this month and the last is in all the things left unsaid, or rather in the conversations I had with myself in its place. It was nicer than I expected it to be; it wasn’t a silent struggle, with thankless sacrifices and tears shed unseen as I once allowed it to be. It’s wasn’t all strife and anger and guilt.
Feeling is the secret.
I am trying hard not to make any sweeping generalizations, to fall into the cliche of chalking my progress to coincidental realizations. This is slow deliberate progress, the creation of a life worth living, or the breaking in of a living space that I was previously too afraid to claim as my own.
Feeling is the secret.
I rewrite the days and nights, and imagine the lives of other women with my name until I confuse it for my own. It does not feel unhealthy to live in this manner; it is a welcome change from the constant uncertainty, for this once I feel like I could be happy with what might be, even what is.
Feeling is the secret.
I am stubborn now once more in the memory of my older self and her friends. I am stubborn again: I believe, I have faith. In what, I cannot tell you. And why, worse still I don’t know. But does it matter? I’ll be happy here, in this little bubble that I call home. I’ll see where this takes me, and I’ll tell you too, when the time is right, I’ll tell you that I’m happy from deepest, most vulnerable place in my soul, and that I think of you and the others with fondness and love.
But can you be happy in this moment? Do you dare to imagine all that you’ve wanted, and act as if? Can you find the courage to believe?
Feeling really is the secret, dear.
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August-September: Free Writing #8 and #9
Memory, Retrospection, Writing? Yes, yes, yes.
I’ve gotten in the habit of using a journal again, and in it I write when my heart feels heavy. I sometimes write many pages and sometimes just a single word. Sometimes I muster the discipline to write even when I am feeling good. That’s how it goes; when you’re happy or when you’re carefree, you live in the moment and when you’re not either, you want to escape. Words are a good escape, but often you need a medium. It is not always enough, I’ve learned, to swill the words in your head and let them settle. You need a medium. Whether you want to say it out loud or you want to put the words in writing, or whether you want to paint the pain or dance to express, do what you must to find relief.
And here I am, finding relief, months and weeks after the fact. It is now October but I am looking back, trying to remember, trying to heal. I could just blink slowly and look away, start facing forward and maybe begin walking. I could. But I can’t. It lingers, my suffering, and my love, and though it slowly fades into the journal pages of the past, I can’t let go just yet.
So, August and September, I thank you. You filled my days with life though I did not want it. You saw my pain and shone on me anyway. Thank you.
As for the suffering — I can sit with it for now. The pain does not sting as bad, and at the risk of romanticizing, I might even draw from it. It has changed me, and I’ve become open to a different kind of living. Coffee tastes worse, and my back feels better cracked. A drink alone is enough, and a pack of squares to boot. I’ll think of those dark, brooding nights and fall into the depths of my vertigo when it comes. I’ll let the chilly air pierce my skin and let my pores fill up with dread, and I’ll sit in darkness. It does not feel lonely anymore. There is no hopelessness.