Ten Things I Do When I Procrastinate

1.  Over-eat
2.  Tidy things around the house
3.  Go shopping (this is a dangerous activity!)
4.  Watch TV
5.  Bake
6.  Over-chat on the phone
7.  Beat myself up emotionally
8.  Keep myself busy with external "responsibilities"
9.  Surf the net
10. Check emails

My creative writing instructor gave me a newspaper article about writers and procrastination.  According to the article, procrastination is an important aspect of the writing process.  Procrastination is a form of preparation that helps to clear a space for the mind to channel creativity and imagination when working with the written words.  The article interviewed several authors and asked them how they dealt with procrastination and "writer's block".  The responses were illuminating.

I agree with the paper's take on procrastination.  I will have to practice being mindful of how far to take this idea, however, because, knowing me, I would be liable to use it as another great excuse to avoid getting on with my writing.  ;-)

Well, my fifteen-minute break is up.  I better get back to my writing.

Erica Jong Said, "If You Don't Risk Anything, You Risk More"

It’s true. If you don’t risk doing something that you really want to try and do, you lose the opportunity to develop skills in becoming proficient, and, perhaps, even an expert in it. You lose out on learning about the subject. You lose out on making connections with interesting people who might have made great companions. You lose out on learning more about yourself and how you work. Most importantly, you lose out on the opportunity to enhance your self-worth and confidence in accomplishing a goal or in doing or being something you never thought you could possibly do or be. 

Self-confidence is an incredibly powerful virtue to develop.  It's an immune booster.  It strengthens and protects your spiritual, mental, emotional and physical well-being, so that when life offers you "lemons", you can make lemonade.

It takes less energy to try something - to reach out and risk failure or loss - than it does to sit back and do nothing, wondering what could have been if you had just tried, beating yourself up - which, we have all seen, can take many forms - for not girding your loins and doing whatever you wanted to do, in spite of the fears. For the rest of your life, you will always wonder, “what if…”

Risk it. Risk failing. Risk losing. Risk rejection. Risk humiliation. Otherwise, if you don’t risk living a life beyond fears, you risk everything that you are and can potentially be, and that is the greatest loss of all, not just to you, but also to the world. 

So, go ahead!  Risk a life worth living.  Dream yourself to be, and do, the best that you can imagine for yourself.  Then the miracles will happen, and living becomes almost effortless and deeply fulfilling, for yourself and for those around you.

Peace and love.

The Little Voice

It's been a while since my last post.

I could say that I've been very busy and haven't gotten around to it.  The truth is that I've fallen into the pit of fear again.  I find myself listening to the same question over and over in my head.  "Who wants to hear what I have to say anyway?" 

I know enough of the pop psych tools and rationales about getting on with one's life to be able to use it on myself.  I just don't want to anymore.  I'm tired of constantly pulling and dragging myself through my stubbornness to get on with writing.

The truth is, I don't feel like I am good enough.  Maybe, the real truth is that I'm lazy - too lazy to put in the work.  No, that's not true.  The truth is I'm afraid of reliving the emotional memories of events that have had a profound impact on my life.  Many of them have been painful, and many more still have been so magnificent, so gracefully and magnanimously gifted to me that I sometimes feel like my body wants to scream and shout for joy.  But, then I say to myself, "who wants to hear you talk about these things?"  and "who cares?"

Life is beautiful.  I marvel at the magic and mystery of life, of the events that bring people together and that tear them apart, of the depth and breadth of understanding that one can dive into within the self and beyond the known world.  Even in the darkest moments, I find life beautiful.  Life is so precious.  I love it! 

Still, the little voice inside me, for whatever reason, insists on holding on to the belief that, although life is precious and beautiful and miraculous and magical, she, herself, is not worthy of the same consideration.  In the end, it doesn't matter whether I think I am worthy or not.  But, if I don't add my voice to the ethereal symphony of creation that we are all a part of, then am I not doing a disservice to myself and to life, Itself?

I'm ready to write.  Thanks for waiting for me to crawl out of my black hole, Friends, and for your encouragement to write.

Peace.

Change

In my first post, I mentioned how this blog became known as Healing My Broken Wings. 

I must confess that I spent a good deal of time before and since then thinking about the appropriateness of the title.  My personal history has been an incredible challenge for me to live through (I acknowledge that it might not be that way for another), but it has also been a great gift.

Sometimes, when I look back on my early life, or when I reflect upon the possible origins of some current behaviour or thinking in which I am engaged, I am saddened.  At those times, I keenly remember the despair and hopelessness of surviving my life. 

As time went on, life changed.  And I did, too. 

Initially, when I thought about what I wanted my blog to be, I envisioned it as a tool to help me tell my story.  I still see it that way, but I am coming from a different perspective than a broken-winged creature.

To use the metaphor of a bird, I believe that my wings were broken, given the reality in which I existed.  Through the years, however, life taught me how to fix my broken wings.  There are times, to this day, when I feel so vulnerable that I feel as if I am still a broken-winged bird.  Mostly though, I have had the good fortune of experiencing profound moments of grace, and through them, the opportunities to change and grow.  I am growing in confidence, learning to honour and respect myself, and embracing aspects of myself from which I have hidden for a long time.

So, I have changed the title to more accurately reflect who I am and what my intentions are for the blog.  This is an fyi for those of you who have followed me from the start, and a "thank you" for all your help and continuing support.

Longing

For home.  For a time that seems to belong only in my imagination. 

Sometimes, my longing to return home to Vietnam is such a painful yearning that it wakes me up and makes me cry. 

In my dreams, I can speak Vietnamese fluently and sonorously.  In waking life, I speak Vietnamese, but it leaves much to be desired.

The first time I returned home to Vietnam, I felt certain that I would be able to pick up the language quickly, and become fluent in no time.  If I had stayed there longer than I did, I might have.  However, the year that I spent there was a gift, in any event. 

When I arrived at Noi Bai Airport, I came face-to-face with the new Vietnam - a Vietnam that was shockingly unexpected...  In my polaroid imaginings of Vietnam, I pictured a world I had left behind 30 years before.  What awaited me, instead, was something unbearably shocking and beautiful.

Banana trees dotted here and there and  lush, green rice paddies with solitary oxen and farmers tending them were frequent scenes that glided past my hungry vision as the taxi driver swiftly and, not so carefully, drove us through the highway.  These were the idyllic scenes I expected to see on my return home.  What I didn't expect were the changes that have shaped the country and its people since the end of the war, particularly since Doi Moi, or Renovation, in the 1980s...and the very different rules for driving to which I was unaccostumed.

The juxtaposition between the crazy ride and the idyllic scenes was so surreal (not to mention the fact that I was actually back in my country after all those years away) I couldn't stop shaking my head in disbelief. 

Now, I can look back and laugh. 

The taxi driver was driving in the middle of the highway, frequently looking back and grilling the novel curiosity that was me, while cars, driving in the opposite direction, all looked like they were ready to squash us like bugs if we didn't get out of their way.  I almost had a heart attack!  I kept telling him to watch where he was driving.  "Are these Vietnamese crazy?!  Don't they know how to drive?!!"  (Anxious thoughts running madly around an already over-stimulated brain.)

"Listen, Mister, how about you watch where you're driving, instead of renegotiating the cab fare, again?  ...Aaaaa, watch out!!!"

Change is a constant.  I am coming to accept that maxim, but it doesn't make it any easier when one finds oneself standing between the end and the beginning of a time, even as one recognizes the possibilities latent in such a change.

Vietnam has changed so much, and seems to have adapted to the modern age quite well.  But one thing about Vietnam that hasn't changed is what it means to me.  Vietnam is a symbol of loss and of hope.  Sinking my feet into the white sand that my DNA recognized as home, I fleetingly caught something I had lost long ago - my spirit and my place of belonging.

I will never have the experiences of the Vietnam I could have had if I had lived there my whole life, but the one I had during my year of living there was so heartbreakingly moving and transformative that I long to go back -- to continue my transformation.  Or, maybe, to just see where life leads next.

...One day.

Or, perhaps, time, with its mysteriously unfolding ways, will lead me to affirm that home is not a place, but a state of mind (of being and of grace) that can be entered into whenever I remember that I am worthy.  Then, my longing for home will be no more than the realization of a longing for the joy of being with my longest living companion - myself.

...Perhaps, one day.

Memories

Why do we have them?

Where do they come from?

What purpose do they serve?

Why do we choose to keep certain memories and to let others go?

How accurate/factual are the memories we carry?

Who owns them?

These are the kinds of questions I ask myself when I think about writing my story.  The last two questions stump me.  They are the ones that frequently hold me back from recounting my tales.

I worry.

About what my memory of something is, and how the telling of it might affect another's life - the life of someone who might be connected to that memory.

Secrets.

I carry many of them.  Most of which do not belong to me.  Perhaps, deep within me, there is a martyr...or a samaritan, who willingly chooses to be the receptacle of other souls' secrets. 

How do I move myself beyond this point, where I still honour and protect the lives of others, and yet free myself from the memories that have haunted me all those years ago?  Am I asking for the impossible, or is it possible to find a happy and balanced solution to this dilemma?  Is it a dilemma, or am I making a big deal out of nothing?

After Saigon fell, I wanted to remember everything that happened to me, so that I could always remember those that I lost.  I did really well for years, remembering the people and the events as if they had happened yesterday.  Then, other memories crowded in, and I needed to let go of some to make way for others.  So, I relaxed my hold on some memories, and now...well,...I'm not sure about what I remember.  I can see that my memory of certain events have been layered, over the ensuing years, with newer information gleaned from other people's retelling of said events, and that worries me. 

I want to be as honest and truthful as I can be about what I remember.   I'm not in a position to go around and hunt down all details.  So, how can I share my experiences and honour the truth (not to mention, protect lives) if they are not the same? 

Maybe my concerns are not really issues.... But, then again, maybe they are.

Sigh.

Introduction

I have shared my story, bits and pieces, here and there, over the years with loved ones and with those who seemed genuinely interested. The usual response to the tale is disbelief, then encouragement to write it out.

Writing intimidates me. 

It's another way to communicate, and communication has, generally, been a great challenge for me.  Great, in the sense of "problematic", not great, as in, "Cool! This is something I would be happy to sink my teeth into!"  To this day, I still struggle between expressing too much or too little of my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences.  As a consequence, I end up sharing way too much of myself, or not enough.

I created this blog as part of an assignment from my e-writing course.  The e-course was born from an in-class writing program for which I signed up, through the continuing education office in my local area.  I registered for the latter in hopes of drawing forth enough courage to begin chronicling my story.  I had in the back of my mind the excuse that writing my story would be a legacy that I could leave for my descendants; however, the real reason was that I was hoping it would be a form of therapy. 

The title of the blog was a gift given by one of the members in the writing course, after I read a synopsis of a story.  The story is a tale of sorrow and heartache, and the power of the human spirit to grow and flourish from such pain and madness.  Another member offered the title, 'Laying Down My Burdens.' 

I hope to make this blog a place - a sacred place - where I can build courage and confidence in expressing my thoughts and feelings, lay down my burdens, and begin healing my broken wings.  And, perhaps, through this process, my work might help others in some way.

Welcome and thank you for your visit.