FEAR of visceral joy.

Today is a part two of sorts.
Last week's episode felt too big to just move on from and I've been burrowing myself into it ever since.

I uncovered a really deep insecurity of mine: being redundant. Feeling like what I have to share and what I feel so deeply compelled to say is obvious.

It all feels like, of course, of course.

I've really walked myself through this. And I’ve come to the supremely sophisticated conclusion: OF COURSE, “of course, of course.” No shit.

I ground my whole knowing and philosophy into the fact that all I'm ever doing is reminding.

I was on a call the other day with one of my coaches, Amber Lilyestrom. She's someone I've received support from for years now. She was speaking on this call and I was just pummeled- completely brought to my knees.

I left her a voice note afterwards saying to her that I have been a part of her world for years now and although there was nothing that she said on that call that was markedly new,

It entered me in a way that felt like it changed everything.

Most of the call was prompted journaling.

This is not someone that's like, “here are my answers.” No, this is someone that's committed to reminding me of my own answers.

It's the same reason why I format my Nostalgia, Now visual journal templates in the way that I do-

Go find it. Look in your own photos.

Go find your truth.

Go find your answers.

Go find your wisdom.

Go find your pain.

Go find your love.

In your own photos. It's all there.

You already saw it. You already marked it. You already lived it. You already ARE it.

I sent Amber a voice memo telling her I had been really struggling with this weird insecurity around redundancy. I told her how I would never consider her redundant. That has never even crossed my mind. And yet, this call hit me in such a way.

Through laugh crying on this voice memo I had the thought: no one ever said I love you with the other person thinking “blegh, that's redundant. I didn't need to hear that again.”

The most important things in the world need to be repeated over and over again.

Do you take a picture of your dog and then go to take one another day and think, “oh, wait, actually I already have a picture of him - that’s enough.”

Every moment is completely new and remembered at the same time.

Believe it until you see it, and you will.

And that is what photographs are.

They're pictures of your beliefs- representative, infuriatingly not comprehensive.

They are whatever you need them to be.

Photographs as invitations and barriers.
A free pass to leave the scene of your life.
The ignorant confidence of, “I can always return to this later.”

This is how photos have betrayed me.

They give me the comfort of proof/evidence/effort.

And with that, I turn away as soon as I press and release.

And in that moment, the comfort morphs into illusion.

It has helped me perpetuate my inability to bear the depths of what I feel
by letting me touch it for a fraction of a second and move on.

It lets me off the hook.

If I make pictures of what is unsayable to me, and then feel relief in the “this”-ness of putting my finger precisely on the outside of my insides, wouldn't the next step be to sit with it?

Not to try to figure it out. Not to explain it away. But to be with it.

I've been telling myself that's what I do in the editing process but I'm starting to think that's not true.

I mold and work with an image until it feels right. And then I leave.
Onto the next. Just when I feel satisfied enough to stop, I move on. I don't sit with it.

The photographs demand I speak. They demand a response. It wants to have a conversation with me and I have turned away time and time again.

Frantically searching for my stillness.
Frantically searching for what the photographs have been trying to tell me all along.

That makes me really sad.

I sat with a photograph the other day and bawled.
So close to the surface.
It took less than 20 seconds to start crying.
photo therapy.

I've spent a lot of time diminishing my work as a writer.
(It even feels strange and uncomfortable to say that part of the sentence: “As a writer.” )

“I'm not articulate enough. I'm not concise. I'm redundant. I'm not great at communicating.”- Those criticisms felt okay because I wasn't looking at the writing as my art. And I think that in and of itself was so painful that I couldn't see that truth.

My photographs are the untouchable heavenly experiences of freedom that exist because I am in my fullest expression.

No questions, no doubts, no pollutants, just pure connection to life.

But I read an excerpt from a book recently that gave me the exact punch in the fucking face I so desperately needed. And this is a quote from Mark Nepo's book, The Endless Practice. I opened to a page seeking comfort, clarity, guidance and this couldn’t have been more for me if I tried:

“Such openness requires two things, the risk to be, which asks us to slow to the pace of creation where all things join. And secondly, the courage, not just to let what comes up through, but to sing it through. It takes courage to give voice to what we experience. The way a coyote howls, not just out of hunger, but out of a visceral joy at being part of the infinite secret revealed.

In this way, we're angels wrapped in skin and fur, racing through thicket because we sense what can't be seen all around us.”

We sense what can't be seen all around us.

It came rushing in.

It doesn't require courage for me to take the pictures I take anymore.

At one point it did. And while in some instances there are moments where a form of courage comes into play, it is far more flow. And honestly, I don't think that there's anything wrong with that. Some might say, maybe you need to push harder then, but that doesn't resonate with me in this. I think the only problem here is that since I wasn't feeling resistance in my “real art”(photography), I wasn't recognizing the struggle in my recognition of my writing as a problem.

I've been so consumed with feeling like I was having a clarity problem, I didn't realize it was actually a courage problem.

I don't like that.
I don't like that at all.
It's really hard to swallow that.
It's really hard to say that out loud.

My photo taking is letting what comes up through.
But my writing is me needing to sing it through.

I know this is a bitch slap from the universe because I've had this annoying nagging urge to take up singing lessons lately. I cannot kick it.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a singer when I grew up but it's not like I ever took singing classes before.

And of course this quote from this book comes and tells me to sing it through.

Giving voice to myself through photo taking feels primal.
I'm hungry. I must scratch this itch.
It’s survival.

But writing…writing would mean singing.
Not out of fulfilling a primal need, but to cross over into t
he courageous act of allowing visceral joy.

Have I ever allowed myself
visceral joy?

I have never paired the word visceral with joy,

Never.

But now that I see what I want to say is not a communication problem.
Not a clarity problem,
but a courage problem?

Game fucking on.

I can't unsee that and I do not like that.

My question for you:

What problem in your life, what issue, what tension, are you overcomplicating into this very complex mystery? What feels like there's something that you can't see or get a hold of, but now, maybe/possibly/probably could be simplified as a courage problem? What comes up for you?

What is far more simple than you'd like to realize?

So the plot twist here in this part two breakthrough is:

Last week I thought the monster under the bed was named: Redundancy.

But this week,

I realized its real name is Fear.

Fear of what?

Fear of visceral joy.

Fear of singing.
Fear of singing it through.

I can allow myself the photographs because it’s survival.

Because they're my own secret, private language. An indescribable relationship immune to outside noise. They're quiet.

But using my voice,
using my words requires a level of ownership and power and specificity and thriving
that is so scary, and yet, refuses to be dismissed.

It's so crazy how we live our lives like we're inside of the most intense jigsaw puzzle
But really it's the most simple thread.

What are you frantically searching for that life has been trying to tell you all along? (hint: go to your pictures- you already know, you already touched it.)

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Nostalgia, Now monthly Visual Self Discovery Prompted Journal Templates.


I have been committed to this monthly ritual of reflection through these journal templates for about 3 years and it constantly keeps my in sync with myself. I take great comfort in knowing that everything I need to see will show itself every month.

It’s not that I always feel like I’m on cloud 9, but at least once a month with the help of this practice, I always feel like I am connected to myself and the way I’m choosing to live my life. I’ll never have to say, “I wish I would have know at the time…” in decades ahead.

I utilize my background in neurolinguistic programming, my philosophy, and my photographic practice to create prompts for you to read and then explore your own photos so you can reflect and immerse yourself in your life through an intentional visual manner.

This space becomes your visual memoir.

Go forage. Look for evidence that you've already taken.
Your core wisdom has already touched it and you will see the evidence.
Your experience of witnessing yourself in this way brings a version of deep intentionality and reflection (usually reserved for New Year resolutions) back to your life, now.