The Silent Page

Today is the first day I have felt somewhat normal in weeks. Many. Weeks. Since I returned from Austria at the beginning of this year, I have been plagued with near debilitating medical issues. I even thought I might not be able to go to Bulembu. Thankfully, a diagnosis was made and medicine was prescribed. But it wasn’t the right solution, and I have since become a guinea pig to doctor’s trying to find the right cocktail that will do the trick. In the meantime, there are days when I can barely get out of bed. Today is the first day I haven’t had a moderately painful headache or full-blown migraine in more than a month. Remnants of PTSD crept back into my life creating anxiety that made me fearful to even leave my home.

And work? Ha. Forget work. If there was enough energy to make it downstairs, I’d consider that a good day. There have been a few projects here and there, for which I am thankful. But my blog…

I consider this blog to be the window to my soul. I know God has called me to write, and I don’t mind opening the shades so people can get a glimpse inside. But I’m the type of writer who believes that writing just for writing’s sake is ineffective and pointless. I’m reminded of the story of Bartimaeus, the blind beggar. When he heard that Jesus was coming, he tried to position himself close enough but the crowd was too much. So, he yelled, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” The crowd told him to be quiet but Bartimaeus only yelled louder. When Jesus heard his cry, he called him over and asked him what he wanted. He replied, “My rabbi, I want to see.” Instantly, Bartimaeus was healed, and he followed Jesus. (Mark 10:46-52)

Bartimaeus spoke when he needed to and when it mattered most. And when everything was on the line, he didn’t give up. I liken myself to Bartimaeus when it comes to writing. I write only when I feel there’s something important to say. I can’t blog just to blog. I must make a difference. What I write must matter to the reader. Otherwise, why bother? Bartimaeus believed Jesus would heal him if he just yelled loud enough.

This is where the similarities between me and Bart end. I feel like I have been screaming at the top of my lungs, but Jesus hasn’t been listening. Yes, I know in my head that God always hears us. Moving that knowledge about 12 inches lower to my heart is a different story. When depression takes over, you stop believing in everything and everyone, including yourself.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened up my blog in the last three weeks, wanting desperately to write something that matters. Instead, I would just wait; not for inspiration but for death to wash over me because I don’t have the courage to do it myself. So, another day would pass and another page would remain silent.

Until today when there is a glimmer of hope. But I’ve seen this movie before. And I know how it ends. I wonder how long the page will remain silent this time.

The disfigured butterfly

It was nearly 5:00 p.m., and I was finally able to drag my body out from underneath the covers where I’d spent the entire day and night before. It wasn’t that I wanted to get out of bed. My head had been throbbing with the pain of a migraine of epic proportions. The thought of food made me want to hurl as if I was the whale holding Jonah in my belly. Light stung my eyes and made them water. I couldn’t even stand the sound of my own breathing anymore. It was just too loud for this migraine. But I needed to get up. I needed to spend a few minutes with my husband after his long day at work. He wouldn’t have cared if I had stayed in bed, under the circumstances. He’s just that kind of guy! In fact, he ate dinner at the kitchen table in near darkness – blinds closed, no lights on and a dark, damp day made the sun seem as if it had set hours earlier.

There are many things that bring a sense of calm to this weary and anxious mind: music, writing, reading. But all of those things would have brought more pain. While conversation was light, I didn’t want to just sit there for the rest of the evening so I decided I would color. Yes, I said color. I love coloring! Maybe it takes me back to the simpler days of my childhood when my imagination came to life in the wild pigments I displayed on paper and keeping the colors contained within the lines was my biggest worry of the day. But, this 40-something woman still likes to color from time to time!

I squinted my eyes every time I selected a different pencil for the masterpiece I was working on; a butterfly. Each time I began to spread a new color across the page, I realized that the color I had chosen wasn’t exactly the one I had in mind. It wasn’t as green as I’d thought. It wasn’t as crisp or soft as I’d hoped. Before long, my masterpiece looked like a confused collection of strange hues. And then I realized: each new project I take on as a writer never ends up looking the same as I imagined.

The last year has had me chasing two dream projects that seem to be crumbling before my eyes. I have given my heart and soul to both of these projects and kept pushing and pushing, believing that I was following the right path – choosing the right colors. My intentions were pure: To honorably tell stories that I believe need to be told. I have traveled the world over, giving of my talents while asking for nothing in return (including money) and all of it because I believed in both projects. And I believed that my efforts would lead to something bigger and better. I have met some of the most amazing people along the way; many of whom have become my dearest friends and Sisters.

Yet, I feel I have been betrayed, ignored, pushed aside, misled, and had numerous carrots dangled in front of me only to watch them be snatched out of my grasp as soon as I reach for them. I’ve been stuck in the middle and asked to answer for things other people have done all while not having the necessary information to satiate curious appetites.

Why do I keep picking the wrong colors? My writing life looks as confusing and disfigured as the butterfly with all the wrong shades. I have come to doubt myself as a writer; as someone with something of value to contribute based on years of experience. How do I keep writing? Will the ones I’ve been trying so hard to reach notice if I stop spreading my wings? I just don’t want to deface anymore butterflies with every new dream. I don’t want to be the blemished butterfly anymore.

The New Web Site

Life has a way of bringing about change, and lots of change has come to my life in the last year or so. Part of that change has meant completely closing the doors to Fletcher Communications. I continue to write but am moving in an entirely different direction and am no longer building the business or the brand.

It is with great joy I introduce you to my new website, www.theresiawhitfield.com. My main focus is back where it began: writing. I have returned to magazine writing and am focusing more on book work (a novel) and some special project work, including social media projects for a select group of people who are involved with some charities that have special meaning for me. I’m doing a lot more traveling with my work these days, which also brings me great joy.

My web site will have updated articles and social media projects as they happen. I the meantime, I’m delighted to bring regular updates through this blog, which is now being followed in more than 35 countries. And I hope you’ll tell your friends to join us here for great conversation and information. If you’ve got questions or comments, feel free to reach out to me at my new email address twhitfield@theresiawhitfield.com.

Follow me on Twitter and please follow along with something that’s near and dear to my heart, the Canadian Tenors Voices for Bulembu by joining the Facebook fan page.

I am blessed to be able to do what I do. Thanks for joining me on this journey, and I look forward to hearing from you!

Failure: The Secret to Success

I’m honored to have a guest blogger – and my good friend – to share some insight from his recently published book, Failure: The Secret to Success, Robby Slaughter. I know you’ll enjoy!

If you’re a regular reader of Whitfield Writes, a curious perspective should come as no surprise. A few days ago, Theresia opined on the appropriateness of celery in potato salad. This was not as a matter of culinary authority, but a larger question of why we make choices.

I believe that perhaps the most powerful of all driving forces behind our decisions is the fear of failure. The question of celery in potato salad quickly led to concerns about breaking family tradition or devastating the parents. Something as simple as a recipe can lead to deep and meaningful questions about what we choose to do and not to do.

That’s the reason I wrote the book, Failure: The Secret to Success. After spending a lifetime making potato salad using an ingredient she hates, Theresia suddenly realized that she was making a choice. Ultimately, it was a failure that  sparked her epiphany. Sometimes we have to do things wrong to figure out how to do them right.

Here’s a few paragraphs from Failure about the power of a terrible ingredient:

“Le Bernadin is among the finest restaurants on the planet. They have the record for longest running four-star ranking from the New York Times, starting three months after they opened. The place is only one of five establishments in New York with the highest possible Michelin ranking of three stars. In 2009, Restaurant magazine ranked them as 15th best eatery in the entire world. Given all these accolades, you might be surprised to find out about one of their secret ingredients. Le Bernadin uses cheap, artificially flavored fake Swiss cheese.

For a restaurant that only accepts reservations once a month and can easily cost over $100 per person, it’s shocking to discover a heavily processed product is at the heart of their cuisine. But as executive chef Eric Ripert told Newsweek magazine, the product is not used in the food but as a benchmark to standardize the taste of sauce.

‘In terms of flavor, that cheese tastes identical all year long…so it gives us a reference, and we can judge fairly.’”

There’s a powerful connection between Theresia’s celery and Eric Ribert’s cheap swiss cheese. These are ingredients that both chefs despise, yet their use leads the way to something greater.
In essence:  failure is the secret to success.
http://www.failurethebook.com

By the book today!

The Unkept Journal

I am so excited to be traveling a couple of hours north of Indianapolis to spend the weekend with some of the women from my church small group. We’ll be hanging out at the Mahseh retreat center on Lake Bruce, and I am certain it will be a wonderful time of fellowship and rest. Outside of the beauty of the area and the women with whom I’m spending time, I get to do a mini-presentation on journaling. I decided to share some of my notes with you.

I call this the Unkept Journal because I hate keeping a journal. Keeping a journal can have a negative connotation. Part of being a successful journal writer is the psychology behind it. And if you feel something is negative, you probably aren’t going to be too passionate about participating. Besides, our lives are filled with keeping things: Women are kept. The house is kept. The yard is kept. Doesn’t that sound heavy? Well, just let it go. Don’t keep a journal. A journal is meant to be like friendship or a nice glass of wine – light, engaged, enriching, pleasing, and yes, spontaneous at times.

I recently read the book Writing Through the Darkness: Easing your Depression with Paper and Pen by Elizabeth Maynard Schaefer. In it, she says, “Journaling is journeying inside yourself to see what really lies there below the surface. It is crawling on your knees, using an archaeologist’s brushes to clean off the artifacts of your mind – the memories, ideas, emotions and plans, be they ancient or recent, fragile or sturdy, simple or ornate. Journal writing is focused on healing and recovery.”

How do you get started? Start simple. Here are the basics:

• Pen – I recommend writing long-hand instead of typing on a computer. Writing long-hand discourages something we all do when we sit down and pound our thoughts on a keyboard; edit. When you start editing, you stop writing. And editing is a form of self-criticism. Allow yourself to melt into the feeling that comes with putting pen to paper.
• Paper – That one seems rather obvious considering the first point, doesn’t it?
• Place – Write anytime you can share your thoughts with yourself without being interrupted by anyone else’s demands on your attention. If that’s while you’re soaking in a tub, then soak. If it’s by a river stream in the mountains, go there. Just be intentional about not letting anyone or anything interrupt you.

Now you’re probably wondering: What do I write about? Journal from the heart. Use writing prompts if you have to. (There are lots of terrific books out there that can help, such as the one I mentioned above.) Ask yourself questions:

• What surprised me most about today?
• What moved me most today?
• What do I most want to remember about today?

Don’t force yourself to write every single day if your personality and lifestyle won’t make that possible. Don’t re-read everything you’ve written. Write when you’re bored, happy, grumpy, annoyed, or just gazing out into space. The unkept journal is much more likely to bring you joy and help you look forward to writing than a journal that is kept.

Do you have an unkept journal? How do you make it work for you? I’d love to hear your comments.