Yawning hippos and cracked eggs

The slippery business of writing the truth

Last night I made the mistake of showing my husband what I’d written to you. It’s now in my drafts, along with the numerous other unsent letters that have accumulated since I began this project.

I didn’t ask him for feedback - and he didn’t give me any [by now he knows better than to push on that door when it’s locked]. But his body language - the way his nose crinkled ever so slightly as he read it through - was enough to have me hit unschedule.

In a way, I suppose that was feedback. It confirmed something was off, but what that something was, I hadn’t quite been able to put my finger on.

It was entitled ‘A Weary Biscuit’. On the day I’d written it, I’d felt like the subject of the photo above. The piece spoke about feeling one way, but its energy conveyed something entirely different. There was a straining, and a pushing and a distinct lack of comfort with leaning into said weariness. I’d told myself I was honouring it, because the piece was short, but in the words - the efforting - I was trying to compensate.

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When you write and schedule something on here, then change your mind, Substack sends an automated email reminding you to keep going. That your words are needed. I appreciate the sentiment, but it also wears a little thin, particularly given the frequency I receive their reminder.

One thing I’m learning about authentic expression is that it appears when it wants to. You can sit at your desk at a set time each week, but that doesn’t necessarily mean what you write will ring true. You might be able to access a grain of truth, but if the ego is in the driving seat, what results is like an artificial plastic plant. It looks okay from a distance, but when you push your face into its leaves, there’s no scent. There’s a distinct lack of life. It’s not real.

To really mix the metaphors up [why not?] - what I’ve come to see about my own process is that some pieces take time to cook. I have to write them, and leave them to simmer over time. Come back to them. Stir them a little. Leave them to steep a while longer. And I know when they are ready to be served. If at all.

Other times, it’s more like learning to poach eggs the proper way [I can’t cook but I just about manage these]. You slide three into the pan, one after the other, taking painstaking care not to break the yolks, and fail. Number four, you violently crack on the side of the bowl and throw into the pan from an unsuitable height - and it comes out just right. The yolk perfectly cooked, oozing over your toast. The best kind of meal to start the day.

This is a fourth-egg situation. It’s 5.50am on Friday morning, and allowing myself to abandon my previous attempts, and slap this on the page is exactly what I need. I’ve been waking ridiculously early all of this week. The record was 3.30am - hence feeling like the hippo two days ago and just wanting to get this done. But today I am not weary.

Yes, I am tired.

I wish to move slowly.

And I wish to express what’s true, in this moment.

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Sometimes my body and nervous system tell me it’s not safe for me to do either of those things. For too many years, no matter my mood, I slapped on a smile as I walked into the office. I had to be impressive. Keep up the pace. There was a need to ‘perform’ to belong in the places I worked, but I rarely felt like I did.

I still cling to that world and that time in my life. In the residual ‘being’ ways, and also in practical ways. My leadership coaching work is the primary source of my family’s income. I’m no longer directly part of the world my clients inhabit, and yet I am still dependent on it.

There’s something new I’m creating in my work life, that will likely change this over time. The creative process I’m in the midst of with that explains me waking up so damn early. The utter rightness about [finally] following the longing to play in new spaces with my work is almost overwhelming. What has been rushing through my body at ungodly hours has been excitement. Elation. Exhilaration. Aliveness.

And it’s also scary. Most transitions are. Letting go of what is, even a little, can be terrifying. That’s why I’ve felt blocked this week each time I’ve tried to write to you. I wasn’t weary. Weary was the last thing I was. That was just a convenient cover story.

Giving this emerging dream a little space here today - makes it even more real. And part of me would prefer I ignore it and carry on as I am. It wants me to turn away from where my soul is calling me. To keep going with the predictable, safe, established option. The option that in some ways is deeply fulfilling, but in others grates against who I am and what is most important to me. But I cannot any longer.

There’s more to say about this, and it’s still cooking. Just allowing myself to name this truth out loud today - not pretending it isn’t here - feels nourishing.

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It’s time for me to go now, and cook some actual eggs :)

Thank you for your company.

With love,

Claire

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Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites

Website: clairemackinnon.com

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