I have always been a writer. Meaning instead of talking, which used to make me nervous and lose my point quickly, I liked to express myself in writing.
I wrote with colorful chalks on my grandparents’ balcony, in Chinese pinyin and simples strokes, my grandpa kept them for days before we had to wipe them off with a cloth, praising how much I liked to learn.
I wrote almost everyday since I was a young student. In my generation’s Chinese school system, an essay was not meant for dumping negative emotions and they were expected to be of artistic values and sophisticated expressions, and to not be told completely useless in such high-performance school environment, I made that happen. I wrote beautiful essays, poems, articles with words from ancient mouth and expressed my teenage confusion sleekly with metaphor. The teachers and school were pleased. Events I worked for were pleased. My SAT score was pleased.
Later in university I was hopping our university journal with both Chinese and English pieces and I was soon in charge of selecting writers for that journal. I had a blog I updated often, which had lots of audience I was not aware of, my mom secretly among them trying to understand her not-so-grounded Chinese daughter writing in a language she didn’t have the chance to learn. I sent my pieces to magazines I admired but they didn’t bother to reply nor use me.
I took a learning opportunity in London to start Fashion Journalism, what could possibly be more glamorous yet effortless than becoming a fashion writer for a young girl dancing on her Jimmy Choo heels and Chanel cocoon tote, just to hit the gym through the busy London Tube? I met girls like-minded, stunning beings who I could fall in love with, and words flowed out of my pen like I was born for it. London was free, it allowed me to release the suppressed swearing and NEGATIVITY from long ago. My writing became finally a bit sophisticated, like a human mind.
In my first official job I was asked to write, mainly boring new releases and events planning for an European organization. Luckily later a guy who turned out to be a great boss was led to my blog, and he gave me my great second job which allowed me to express myself freely, and get paid for it. I wrote fashion reviews and commercial articles and ran their websites, the London fashion addict’s dream to walk the red carpet and interview designers at a fashion week did come true. I was more than grateful to have worked for and with him. If I were to see him again or work with him again, I’d correct what I said in my interview – fashion is not to die for, allowing the flow for creation is.
I have been forbidding myself to creat since years. It can be painful, sometimes too truthful, making one too transparent and venerable. I’ve been moving around societies and cultures in which truthfulness and sentiments are not quite practical, I stumbled and was tumbled around, hiding my truthfulness thinking I had to fit in everywhere, or at least somewhere yet nowhere, I suffered to find my true tribe. I stopped creating. The only time I created was when I cooked in the kitchen, expressing my love and emotions in the dishes I served for my family and friends. Some wondered why I had to stand in the kitchen for hours just to wash more dishes, I wondered myself too, but now I see how starved my soul was to express her not-so-important-for-you yet means-the-world-to-myself love of life.
I started this blog and wrote a children’s book for Vincent and my grief, and throughout my journey to be close to him and the Source, I was told repeatedly the answers lies within myself. I just need to learn to ask myself and keep the water flowing.
It turned out I knew from the very beginning. At least I got some of the pieces. I just forgot to trust and allow.
If you are a parent, a fellow sister, a soul feeling so alone trying to stand your own truth, if you have been feeling confused whether to let go of your birthright, I send you the energy of trust. If you come across this blog and article, my Vincent sends you lots of hugs. It is hard work somehow to choose to be the ones to keep the flow, and not be dragged down by the density and gravity of what’s opposite, those emotions and worries and sorrow which makes you wonder if we as a collective energy really has come to an abyss.
Dance, meditate, love, cry, draw, write, cook, kiss, have hot sex, run, paint. That’s the flow of your water thus the flow of all human lives. Don’t allow anyone or anything to tell you otherwise.