Notes For Creators

creative soul surfing

Crisis means to sift

What do you do when hit with colossal disappointment?

Here’s a suggestion. Take a cue from Glennon Doyle in Love Warrior, in which she says:

Crisis means to sift. What is left when you go through a crisis is what matters.

I’m reading a gobsmacking memoir by Jewel. Here’s a post from her book Never Broken about gigging in bars with her dad from the age of 5.

Run out and buy Jewel’s book. Hers is a hippy poetess adventure of a life lived in broken pieces . . . yet with some of the most haunting reporting you’ll ever find from within the resurrection point. Points. She lives through a number of crises . . . and each time digs something new from within.

Jewel’s family busts up, her car and guitar are stolen — the one that she’s living in — she lives on the streets of California.

What you see Jewel do is go to ground zero. She retreats to paper and pen. She asks herself questions. She lets it all fly. Her fear, her distress, her angst, her bewilderment. She sifts.

She uses a technique her mother taught her. Of writing out what she wants . . . then ideas on how to get there . . . and then she chooses some and writes down actions to make those ideas work.

She sifts.

What is left when you go through a crisis is what matters.

A crisis always means loss. Loss of love. Of a relationship. Of financial means. Of health. Something valuable is suddenly taken away — the car you live in, for Jewel; our business income, for us during the crash.

In a crisis you are given an eerie gift. The gift to find out what remains after the sifting.

There’s no better way to your own resurgence than to go mano a mano with your most intimate self on the page. You and a pen and a piece of paper. Spilling out your loss . . .

. . . And then pivoting to wonder.

Pivoting to what’s important. What matters so much to me that I’m going to hold on to it no matter how hard I’m shaken by life? That is what you’re asking when everything feels broken.

And that’s your gold. Your soul treasure. In each crisis there’s something in you aching to be born. You can run from it and run from crisis to crisis. Or you can accept the gift.

Get present inside your crisis. Until you unearth a little seed of knowing. Some small almost insubstantial force that makes itself known to you. That feels like it’s part of something vast and forevermaking.

Because it is.

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