Come Together

16. July 2024

Come Together

I am happiest when I am writing.

I’ve always been a verbal processor — someone who makes sense of the world, her life, others, by talking or writing things out.

I have friends who are writers — successful, published, award-winning writers — many of whom dread the process.

I LOVE it. Even, maybe especially, when it isn’t easy.

I wrote a blog (Daily Practice of Joy) for six years. During that same time, I also wrote two books and a lot of Medium articles. Then, toward the beginning of the pandemic, I had an epiphany. I was too afraid to write the one thing I had always wanted to write — a novel. I’d begun novels. Lots of 10,000-word beginnings. Just no endings. So, I stopped my daily blog and finished a first draft by writing every single morning for six months.

Next came the editing process. The second, third, fourth, and fifth edits got squeezed in between work for my growing client list. This was the first time I’d written a book without an editor, but I loved the challenge.

While doing this, I dabbled in what I called written podcasts — writing and then recording blogs on a variety of topics (Hide and Seek, A•Verse). That all tapered off, as I took on more and more work and had less and less time for writing. Even my morning journaling waned — because the less I wrote, the unhappier I felt. The unhappier I felt, the less I wrote. Because here’s the thing about unhappiness. It perpetuates itself by justifying itself:

Why should I bother journaling? I have nothing to say, and no time to say it.

Well, what about blogging? There are already too many unread blogs out there.
Besides, everyone’s onto podcasting now. And you don’t even listen to podcasts. So, why bother?

Eventually, I stopped bothering. Instead, I worked harder on other people’s projects (which I do enjoy) — planning their events, building their websites, designing their books, overseeing their book launches, and running their social media campaigns — until my own creative life became a distant memory.

Yet it took a surprisingly long time for me to recognize that when I neglect what I love, I am miserable.

This year, I celebrated my dad’s birthday in late May with a group of fans who came from all over to celebrate with me in his hometown of St Louis. We visited some of his favorite places, watched some of his favorite movies, and chatted over long meals.

I came into the weekend on fumes after putting on big projects for clients and having another the following weekend in Denver. But I left revitalized. Why? Because sharing my dad with others always helps me remember the fundamental gift of his life: My dad had the great good fortune of doing what he loved and sharing what he loved doing with others. How? Dumb luck? Nope. He refused to give up his own heart — and encouraged others not to abandon theirs.

My dad has been gone over thirty years and so many people still love him. Why? Because in a world where so many of us muddle through our lives without ever really knowing who we are or why we are here, he lived differently. He followed his heart and inspired others to do the same.

So, why has it been so hard for his daughter to remember what he taught me?

I’ll give you a one-word answer: paradox.

I wrote all about paradox in my book, The Way of Being Lost: How every spiritual path is paved by paradox. I wrote about my paradoxes, learning to embrace them. Come to find out that writing about something doesn’t mean you can pack it away in a drawer and coast.

Richard Rohr taught me that when we hold the paradox instead of resisting or fearing or ignoring it, we eventually learn that everything belongs — in all of us.

Embracing paradox brings us together.

That is why I am staring Oddity.

I am a hider and seeker, an introvert with extrovert skills, an inspirer who so easily abandons, an optimist whose perfectionism paralyzes her, and a lover of horror fans who can’t watch scary movies.

I have never felt like I fit in and I can adapt to almost anything.

I am an oddity — strange, peculiar, singular — who can have a conversation with almost anyone about almost anything and still can’t wait to be by myself; a loner who has found community among those who consider themselves oddities in ways that seem genuinely odd to me.

Where does this leave me?

Right here — creating a space based on the understanding that differences don’t have to divide us. That what we fear is not cause for division, but a means of connection and a path toward growth. That embracing our oddity allows us to enjoy others in ways that help us see that what we all any of us needs is to learn how to be different. . .together.

When we celebrate our differences, we learn how to love.

That’s what Oddity is.

I can’t wait to share this space with each and every one of you. (In small doses for us introverts, of course!)

Let’s be oddacious. Together.