Trusting what feels right and true
"I can spiral away from what feels right and true, catch myself, and begin again. Over, and over."
Dear fellow human,
For the last few years I have chosen a ‘word of the year’ to guide my intentions into the New Year and beyond. But this year I feel drawn towards a phrase; what feels right and true?
My natural disposition is to believe I can think my way through life, but what if I were to trust in how it feels?
In this essay I share a few reflections on what felt right and true to me over the last week.
This morning I walked with Alfie through our local park and out into the woods behind the rows of houses where we live. At this time of year, the ‘dead week’ between Christmas and New Year, most people don’t seem to leave their houses until late-morning. Except, that is, for us dog-walkers. We are reliably outside around the same time every morning with our four-legged friends. Dead the week may be, but we keep walking.
I walk without listening to music, or podcasts, or doing much else for that matter. It’s a time of day I like to spend in solitude, albeit with Alfie sniffing away by my side. Occasionally Alfie will stop to say hello to a friend, and I will stand with their owner whilst we exchange nods and smiles about our companions. The odd word might be offered, but for the most part interactions are knowingly silent.
This morning I moved on from an encounter with a gorgeous border collie and his warm-faced elderly owner wondering if I should have said more. I often feel as though it is my responsibility to make others feel comfortable, and the formula to do so is inquisition, curiosity, and never a moment’s silence (even when it feels like an unnatural state of being).
I am adept at monitoring social situations, mimicking others, and playing the role I am supposed to play. Pulling myself back to what feels right and true to me is a choice every time. I reminded myself that I must trust what feels right and true; that endeavouring to please is not the same as being kind.
On Wednesday afternoon I brewed a big mug of black coffee and spent hours sprawled on the floor of my studio enjoying a selection of
’s creative classes. I discovered Marlee via - another writer I deeply admire - and whilst I am not usually one to shell out on online creative courses I trusted that their offering felt right and true. I felt I had been drawn to Marlee, albeit for a reason I couldn’t put my finger on.The first class I decided to take was about beginning again. You know - when beginning a creative project can be hard because you spiral and fall off track and so the art of beginning over and over again becomes a necessary skill to master?
Marlee introduced themself as a ‘tornado person’, shamelessly owning their tendency towards falling off track and finding their way back to the beginning again. Immediately I thought: ‘oh, they spiral too! They get it! That’s what this class is about! That’s why I was summoned here!’
I felt emotional witnessing Marlee’s acceptance of their own tornado-like being. Their embodied transparency and self-acceptance was utterly inspiring, as an artist but also as a human. Marlee went on to declare ‘…and I love being a tornado person’, helping me see in a matter of seconds that losing sight of what feels right and true (in any capacity in my life, whether creative or personal) is not a moral failing or a character flaw but a very human thing to accept and own about myself. I can spiral away from what feels right and true, catch myself, and begin again. Over, and over.
The writing I am drawn to most is personal. I guess all writing is personal, but I mean the kind that involves the ‘navel gazing’ that has historically been criticised as self-indulgent.
The kind of personal writing I care to read is the kind of writing that is the hardest to write; the kind of writing that draws truth from broken bones and traumatised souls. As Melissa Febos writes in ‘Body Work, The Radical Power of Personal Narrative’:
‘We are writing the history we could not find in any other book. We are telling the stories that no one else can tell, and we are giving this proof of our survival to each other.’
As a writer myself I find this the most challenging of writing to create, mostly because it requires me to witness all of myself. To be honest about what feels right and true versus the mirage I create to protect myself. It is uncomfortable and painful, and I have mistaken this inevitable part of the excavation process as a warning sign to leave it be.
I am sensitive to these perceived warning signs, as I expect many of us who have been silenced or ignored tend to be, because I am used to feeling as though my stories and experiences do not need to be aired, listened to, or acted upon. Melissa Febos succinctly writes:
‘Those who benefit from the inequities of our society resist the stories of people whose suffering is in large part owed to the structures of our society. They do not want to have to change.’
I have been taught to resist what feels right and true, but my relationship with writing is a tool to welcome in, get to know, and work to accept my truth - even when it hurts.
I am fascinated by notebooks. More specifically, how creatives use their notebooks to support their creative work and life. I embarked on a spate of research around the keeping of daily diaries this week as I have been preparing my own notebook lineup for 2024. I stumbled across blog posts by
about his notebook practice, of which there are many to sink your teeth into.One of Austin’s techniques is ‘spiralling out’. He uses it when he doesn’t know what to write in his diary. Starting with a dot at the centre of the page, he draws a spiral outwards stopping to make an annotation when something of note crosses his mind. The idea is that by the end of the spiral the act of moving has inspired thought.
As I was reading Austin’s thoughts about this, I couldn’t help but notice the spiral imagery I had been thinking about earlier in the week whilst out walking with Alfie and taking Marlee’s classes.
I love the idea of acknowledging the spiral, the sense of distance from what feels right and true, by naming it on the page - physically drawing the spiral until words to name what feels right and true make themselves known to you. I spend so much of my life spiralling in my head, with words jumbled, and realities scrambled, that this simple exercise is sure to help me pull myself back to centre.
So, for me 2024 is the year of pursuing what feels right and true. And, when I inevitably spiral off course, to begin again. Over, and over.
What feeling will you pursue in 2024?
Sending you love,
Charlie
This resonated with me. Around half a year ago, my therapist and I talked about what I still need to learn (after quite a while in survival mode). This is what I came up with: the confidence that what feels right to me is actually right for me. More importantly to put that above what other mental healthcare and medical professionals (heyo chronic illnesses) and people that mean well tell me they think is right.
I've been thinking back to when I learned to write and my teacher (who meant really well) corrected me on my pen holding and my 'non-textbook taught way' of writing out some of the letters. Today I know that she just wanted to offer me a alternative, but what stuck is that I did things wrong and had to turn to someone else to know what's right. The process of discovering what feels right again has been hard, but equally rewarding. And I'm slowly realizing that others mostly offer advice and not commands. It feels good to answer "Thanks for your advice, but I'll do it my way"
Lovely piece to end the year Charlie which I definitely related to. Coming back to what feels right and true for me is definitely still an ongoing journey and feels like something I have to learn again and again! The more I write and listen to my own voice, the clearer it gets and the more I trust myself. I want 2024 to be about creativity, connection and community.