I have never written in order to make money or become famous. As far as money is concerned, I could not imagine in my wildest dreams that anyone would ever pay for what I write. What I write can hardly be described as entertaining or exciting. And in our time, it is more than unusual to contemplate or philosophise about life. This is something I have always done, whether in writing or in conversations with the few people close to me.
I wrote what might be called consciousness literature, as well as a little prose coloured by my experiences from childhood and youth. My writing was always full of questions, reflections and observations. It was almost always quiet, sometimes critical, and often different from what one might call politically correct, normal or likely to sell well.
Becoming famous has always frightened me greatly. I am a private and shy person. Whenever, later in life, I shared my writing about consciousness and awakening publicly and actually received some recognition or praise, I panicked. I felt obliged to my readers and became afraid that I would have to show more of myself, that things would soon get out of my control. And so I deleted my accounts and disappeared into the unknown.
I always wrote because I could not stop myself. But in my thirties and forties, I was still driven by a kind of crazy missionary spirit. I saw so much misery and dysfunction in this world, so much cruelty, suffering, stupidity and unconsciousness, that I wanted to help people. To shake them, awaken them, teach them, show them why they might not be happy and that their suffering might be something optional.
There were people who asked for my advice, but hardly anyone who was really able to understand what I was suggesting, what I was trying to make them see. Somehow, this role did not fit me either. It felt like a compulsion, an obligation I was not willing to take upon myself.
A voice deep inside me kept asking: “Who are you to tell others what is good for them?”
And yes, back then, I was often not entirely free or happy myself, although I had always instinctively known that awareness of what is wrong with us, and awareness itself, were keys to a good, worthwhile and meaningful life. Because without seeing what is wrong, what does us no good, what does not work, we can hardly free ourselves from it.
Nevertheless, I gave up my attempts at missionary work. I was tired of social media, of the superficiality around me, of people who did not understand what I was talking about.
Another reason why I waited several more years before sharing my thoughts with others again was that I became aware of how much I cared about what other people thought of me and my writing.
It stressed me to see whether someone liked what I wrote or not. Our time, and social media in particular, only intensify this stress through all the functions that allow people to measure themselves and compare themselves with one another.
I always knew it was nonsense, but I was influenced by it myself. And that influenced what I wrote. Self-censorship, political correctness, spiritual correctness and all the other nonsense followed.
I was ashamed and withdrew. I immersed myself in my inner world, as well as in my actual work as a language teacher, my private life, my house and my garden. I consciously withdrew from trying to save, awaken or change others, as well as from the fear of being misunderstood, of being liked too much or too little. Both were heavy burdens.
They say that, with time, the fruit ripens. Lately, I have relaxed a great deal, listened to fantasy audiobooks, and almost completely lost interest in spirituality, philosophy, improving humanity, social media and writing.
Instead, I gave myself over to conscious living at a slow pace: long evenings in my favourite armchair, time in the garden, a book, solitude.
My thoughts did not stop. My observations kept crystallising in my mind, again and again, perhaps ever more clearly. Many seemingly unrelated threads kept coming together, as they always have for me, and I continued to weave them together in my mind or share them with my husband.
I felt content, increasingly at home in myself and in my existence, in this body on this earth.
Letting go of writing and of reaching outwards brought acceptance with it. Today, I can hardly imagine that I ever felt the need to change people or even to be understood by them. Both the expectations and the fear disappeared.
And with that came the desire to be creative again. This time, more in the form of sharing my observations in fewer words and more pictures.
But who knows how things will develop? The most important thing is that I am really enjoying doing it again.
