So my ten (well – eleven, really) days of writing about the basic principles of creative spirituality are over. Suddenly I have an empty white space on the screen in front of me and the capacity to fill it with anything. I don’t know what to do. The part of my mind in which blog ideas live is bereft, devoid of the structure of the last ten posts. What can I write?
And sitting here taking an inordinately long time to formulate and type a sentence, I am reminded of those first weeks after I broke free and formed a life of my own. Suddenly evenings stretched out in front of me, pregnant with possibility and no longer limited by someone else’s desires and demands. I could do literally anything I wanted. Read. Watch the telly, or a DVD (although I brought a grand total of one DVD with me when I escaped!). Cook or potter around doing gentle domestic tasks. Write in perfect silence. Listen to whatever music I wanted without the demand to “turn that shit off”. Look up interesting stuff on the Internet. Draw or sketch. Journal. Possibilities overwhelmed and I was relieved when the telly broke down.
The capacity to decide for myself how I spent my evenings was such a small freedom, but a frightening one. Even now, almost ten months into my new life, I sometimes become overwhelmed by the choices available to me. I take refuge in routine and have to remind myself that I get to choose how I spend my evenings. And how I spend my life.
Freedom is frightening. Exhilarating, invigorating, exciting – but frightening. And I still take great pleasure in being able to choose a CD to listen to in the evenings.