We begin each retreat day by pulling a card. No, we’re not playing blackjack in Vegas … a card as in oracle card, those decks of Sacred Rebels or Hawaiian wisdom or any myriad of other cards with soul-feeding artwork and text that invite us closer to the power within us.  I’m using Mana cards, a gift to me in my first Manifesting a Meaningful Life conversation in Hawaii in 2018. These conversations are not the ‘one and done’ of other offerings, but are often repeated as your journey beckons. And here I am, in Day 5, staring at the card I picked. This has never happened before.

What does it mean to pick the same card twice in one week?

Looking back at me is Ti, the card of Purification. I had picked it on Day 2, read about the importance of Ti leaves in purification of body and spirit, the need to celebrate the cherished and discard what no longer serves. Now, on Day 5, here it is again. Did I do something wrong?

Funny how that goes, how repetition to me is linked to failure. One and Done is how I earned praise in my life. My body was round and slow, so phys ed was a writeoff but in the realm of intellect, I was the quick study, the first one finished my homework and tests, the first to learn the words to our choir songs, the first to step up and be helpful. Practice was for those needing to catch up, revisions were for those who needed extra help. That wasn’t me. I got it right the first time. And when I slipped through university and into a job in journalism, that belief paid my bills and gave me a purpose. Daily deadlines meant getting it right, or at least legally passable, the first time was a must.  There was no time for reflection or finessing: get the facts, assemble them in a readable formula, get it done.

But life is not like that. The life I wanted, that I feel called to, is one of creation, exploration, new ways to be and do and have. That means trying new things, and trying again, and again. There is no one and done in creation, no getting it right the first time, no right and wrong at all. Creation is messy, full of missteps and mistakes and do-overs and revisions. On many levels I know that. But on the level where my next book rests, where I need to touch to release it, my gatekeeper is sitting there, arms folded and shaking its head. You can’t do this. You will need to revise it. You will get it wrong. Don’t do it, You know what will happen when you get it wrong.

I know all to well. People will get hurt. I’ve been aware, I think, for as long as I’ve been writing that my word choice and style can touch people. The four books I have written were based on the life of a person I care deeply about, and who trusted me enough to give me his story. He handed me key words and scraps of memory; I handed him a story that he could read, review his life, face his fears, celebrate that which he cherished and discard those things clouding his sky. But in the course of that writing I also hurt him deeply, because I had little awareness of the power my writing held for him. Attempts to fictionalize the stories awakened me to the fact that he was reading my work not for enjoyment, but as a map. And with his story done, his attention turned to my story, which I had promised us both, and in my flailings I inadvertently sent to him a virtual journal into which I had poured years of uncensored, unfiltered snippets of rage and rebellion, curiosity and frustration, fiction and non-fiction. I sent this as part of the first draft of my book; he had no idea what he was reading, that it was never intended for anyone’s eyes but mine. And he took each word to heart. It ended our business partnership. It nearly ended our friendship, but after giving each other space and time, we slowly came back into each other’s circles, and today we meet and chat in increasing comfort. But I still bump into elephants in the room.

Elephants that the Ti card tells me are ready to move on.

‘Take away all great faults, and all small faults, Throw them all into Moana-nui-kai-o’o, the great ocean’

What do I throw into the great ocean?

Responsibility for other’s reactions and responses to my writing. What came up for him as he read my journal is unique to him. I have blamed myself for years for causing him pain. I blindsided him, immersed him in a world for which he was unprepared. I didn’t mean tom but I did, and I take responsibility for that. What I cannot be responsible for are his feelings and responses. I can offer compassion, I can learn from what he shared, but I should not use his experience to shut down my flow of words. I did that. I’m choosing in this moment not to do it any more.

My responsibility is to share my truth in the moment, allowing that my truth may change as I learn and open and continue to awaken. I toss into the great notion the beliefs that there is one and done, that anything else is a mistake, that playing and rewriting and re-imagining are wastes of time. They are essential in my world. It’s time to give them space. And in this moment, I give myself permission to do that.

Permission unleashed. It starts with giving myself permission to be imperfect. Because that is my truth.

Thanks for reading.