Left Side Eye

I cannot outrun my fate as a writer, try as I might.

In a fury, I moved my nonsense journals, the ones I fill out when I’m taking a course or participating in a healing session of some sort, in an attempt to find my actual, daily journal, as I needed to write a sternly worded entry addressed to God.

Then, in the process of my journal and sitting down, I made eye contact with my Daruma.

A Daruma is a Japanese Doll used to signify the intention to complete a goal or ambition.

My friend gifted it to me after taking a solo trip to Japan, and we decided we were going to fill out the left eye together in ceremony when we were in Bulgaria; she had one as well.

She told me she wasn’t going to give me the doll when I told her the first goal that came to mind was to get a boyfriend.

We brainstormed better ideas, eventually letting out a proverbial duh in unison.

Writing a book.

I had the title picked out for years, and had tens of thousands of words already written, and about 10 different versions of the first draft saved in word documents; I just had yet to formalize my intentions.

Knowing me, I probably said I was going to do it within the year or something ridiculous, always one for trying to rush timelines, but the one eyed Daruma is still here, staring me down, nearly 3 years later, waiting for me to fulfill my promise.

Writing my first book has been cathartic, and one of the greatest joys of my life. I am so grateful for this platform, and the ability to share it with you in the way that I have. It certainly wouldn’t exist in its nearly finished form if it weren’t for you.

For as long as I can remember, writing has been my reprieve, a sacred oasis in the world of big emotions, generating actual excitement when something ridiculous happens, because, at least I get to write about it.

I used to handwrite letters to boys when I was heartbroken, never to be sent, but to make sense of my feelings, as mine seemed to run deeper and sadder than everyone else’s.

I distinctly remember being in the college dining hall and bringing him up again, and feeling so misunderstood by my freshman year assigned roommate, like my feelings were mine and mine alone to bear, and I had to fall in love with someone else so that they could just go away and stop inconveniencing my life.

These hard moments, so emotionally rich and deep, are what I’ve always had the easiest time writing about. It’s not so much that I’m writing, but more so extracting.. transmuting.. alchemizing.

So while I didn’t get around to writing my carefully worded letter to God.. (I still do want to know why did you hit me with a service light and tax notice on my first day back from my soul searching sabbatical)… it feels instead like I’m being nudged to turn my efforts outward, towards you… and finally filling in that right eye.