It’s My Time…
We’re all so busy, aren’t we? Life ticks on in second-to-second events that bite away at the apple of our contentment. The things we do to fill our time preoccupy us, often separating us from ourselves and those we love. Endless lists, immaculate homes, precision-clipped hedges, our perfect record of clocking in-and-out perfunctorily for 30 years…will haunt us when we cling to life in that last second of it. Wait! We’ll scream. I need more time! Time for what? That’s the kicker. Answering that question requires knowing your self, following your bliss, so to speak. It isn’t easy to do. It takes courage.
My bliss is writing. I wrestled, for years, with the decision to write as a career: financial success in one corner, ‘want’ in the other. The dollar won every round. It looked to be the safest bet, so I tabled my writing. I soldiered on in my stressful career as Clinical Coordinator: coming home so tired at the end of the day that my most creative expression came in the form of, ‘huh?” I ignored the feeling that the ‘me’ who is so precious was becoming a purse, not a person. I told myself there’d be time to write later, when I retired. I punched the clock faithfully, until —and I believe this with all my heart —the Universe sent me a message. The message came at the peak of one of my typical, 10 hour, days. I was busying myself at the Nurse’s Station, perusing patient’s charts, thinking of the gazillion things I had to check off my list before the end of the day, when the call came through. My chest tightened. Beads of sweat popped out on my brow. In that instant, as I gasped for breath, my awareness heightened. The clarity of that moment, as I pondered whether I was about to die amidst strangers —with all I’d left undone—set me on my path. That was my ‘wake-up’ call.
I took the message to heart, resigned from my position a couple of weeks later, and became a full-time writer. Subsequently, I’ve been subjected to knowing, speculative, looks from friends (and some family members) that tick off the days of my lapse in sanity, praying I’ll regain my senses and return to my lucrative career. They don’t understand that writing, to me, is as vital as breathing. They haven’t experienced the thrill of awakening from a sound sleep with a story telling itself to them. They’ve never felt the rush of trying their damndest to stay in that twilight sleep where the scenes are so clear and words flow from brain to pen …like water from a fall: cascading and glorious. They mean well. They just don’t get it. They think I should find more productive things to do with my time. Well, time is a constant. It cannot run out, speed up or slow down. But, I can. And I’m not wasting any more time chasing after transient symbols of success, chanting a mantra to the dollar. I want to spend the remaining years of my life following my bliss: being in the moment, not a spectator in my own life. I’m going to let the stories out …and see where they take me. God willing, it won’t be to the Poor House.
Scarlett Rains is a busy wife, mom, grannie, and friend —following her bliss—writing fictional accounts of the adventures of intelligent, 18th century, women. Visit Scarlett here, and find her Sisters of the Hearts series books here.