Not a week (rarely a day) goes by when I don’t hear from someone out there in this wild world of ours, someone just like you. Someone with a regular, ordinary, mundane life. Someone with joy and bliss and heartache and grief. Someone with trauma and fear. Someone struggling against demons. Someone determined to rise.

Every single one of these someones has a story. Every single one of these stories has value.

And every single one of these someones has one thing in common.

The someones that reach out to me, by email or message or social media comments – they want…no, want is not a strong enough word right now – they long – to tell their stories.

Somewhere deep inside there is a pulse of desire. A kernel of an idea. A sweet and lingering pull toward the blank pages of the journal, the blinking cursor in the word doc, the empty spaces waiting to be filled. Sometimes just to the very idea that somewhere inside of them lives a story worth telling, a story someone might one day want to hear. Possibly even a story that could matter, that could change things. A story that could delight or distract or make someone on their darkest nights feel just a little less alone.

Maybe even a story that could save.

I said that these someones have one thing in common. That wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t quite right because of course there is more than one thing.

There is this universal thread that stitches these souls together. It weaves in and out through countries and across oceans, around the curves of different languages and customs, through the years of age and space and time. That thread is the call of stories. The nameless pull to bookstores where you get lost for hours in the feel of pages turning in your hands, where you press books to your nose and breath in the smell of paper and ink and the dreams of whoever strung the words together and bound them into the world you’re holding in your hands. The siren song that brings you together with others like you, where you slip-slide through stories, voices trading and growing softer and more true as the night darkens around you and the veils slip away.

It is said that a writer lives things twice.
Once in the living, like everyone else.
And once again in the telling.

You, sweet someone, live your stories again and again and again, even if you’ve never put them down onto a page. You turn them over and over in your mind. You layer them upon your heart.  A poem crosses your path and a line or maybe just a word jumps out and you feel this thrill of recognition, because it means that somewhere in this vast and lonely world, that poet (likely someone you’ll never meet, maybe even someone not on this earth) in some moment knew *exactly* the thing that you feel to be most true. You know the exact page on your favorite book where the author wrote those words that brought you to life, or maybe even saved you. You’ve scribbled words on grocery store receipts or in the notes section of your phone or just etched them onto the deepest parts of your heart. You visit old bookstores like some visit church, and inside the pages of story you find penance and community and redemption and salvation.

You’ve probably been this way since you were very little and you got lost in the pages of books or told your teacher or your parents that you would one day grow up to be a writer.  You’ve learned that there are many you can’t share this with. The people who will look at you with amusement and condescension. The ones who will tell you that art is not a sensible way to make a living, and words even less so. The people who will tell you that your story isn’t interesting enough to turn into a book, or that it’s already been told a million times over. The ones who red pen slash the most tender spillings of your heart.

Perhaps, it is also quite likely, that all of those people above – and all of their very loud voices, live inside of your own head.

If you’ve been reading this without being able to look away.

If you’ve been reading this and you’re heart has been beating in recognition.

If you’ve been reading this and your soul is screaming ‘yes. she is talking about me. she is talking TO me”

If you’ve been reading and those loud voices are telling you it couldn’t possibly be about you.

I want you to stop right now and take a breath. I want you to pretend you are sitting right here with me today in my living room. The light is bright through the old paned windows. There is a deep blue mid-century sofa and bright mustard yellow cushions. On the table are mason jars filled with sunflowers and bright red blossoms. There is a fan blowing in the corner to keep us cool and a soft voice crooning love songs playing on the speakers. A candle is lit and it smells like amber and roses. 

I want you to bring yourself here with me.  Right here. I want you to turn to face me and to look me in the eye.  I’m going to reach out and take your hands now. Both of them. I want you to breathe with me, all the way down to your toes. And I want you to listen like you’ve never listened before.

You are here today because you have a story.

You are here today because something deep inside you knows you need to write it.

You have always known.

You may have written me before to tell me this, or you may have started to several times and stopped yourself.

You may have only told your best friend or your lover.

Or maybe you’ve never told anyone at all.

But you know, love.

You know.

You know because the words have been piling up against the levees for so long now that it’s a wonder you can hold them in.

You know because the dams have been threatening to break and to spill a flood of story.

You know because there are oceans of worlds inside you that long for nothing but the chance to finally, finally, finally taste land.

You know because it has always been this way. And you know that it always will.

And I know that this matters. That it matters more than almost anything.

And I know that there are others out there like you. Others who are waiting to tell their own story, and others that need more than anything for you to tell yours.

My work in this world is to create a space for this to be real, for you and for all the someones out there like you, Wild Heart Writers, one and all.

In just a few short weeks, a wonderful, ragtag group of someones from all across the globe will gather. We will sit around the campfire and for 30 days we will tell our stories. We will open our hearts. We will open the dams and let the waters of words flow.

And we will finally, finally get to feel what the ocean feels when it crashes on the shore, moving the entire cosmos with the force of it’s being.

Join us.

Your story is waiting for you.

bit.ly/yourwildheart

The post Your Story Is Waiting For You appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

No doubt, questions can hold a tremendous sort of power.

Tonight I find myself wondering – what might that question be for you? The one that you hold tucked deep inside. The one that hints at itself from time to time, appearing, and disappearing like mist, slowly revealing itself as the key to self-discovery, awakening, or transformation. The one that can’t be forced, but that must rise, organically, from the center of your very being?

If you get quiet with yourself, right now, I have a feeling you likely have at least some idea what that question is for you.

And what If I told you that you didn’t have to seek or force or find an answer to that question in order to harness its power – at least not in the way that you might think.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
Rainer Maria Rilke

Almost two years ago I was feeling utterly lost and alone. No job. A relationship imploded. The holidays. Single Motherhood. No plan. No idea. Unsure of who I was or what I wanted or where I was going. One night that December I sat down and hastily wrote out a list of 30 questions.

It turns out those very questions would allow me to chart own map home. I just didn’t know it yet.

All I knew that night is that everything was crumbling and nothing seemed certain and that the solid ground I thought I could rest on was suddenly unstable in every direction. In that moment, I had no answers – no innate knowing. No fucking idea what I was going to do.

Without answers, I turned to the questions.

If I was empty of knowing, the only place to start was inside of the questions I longed to answer.

If I wanted to find myself, it seemed I would have to relearn (and unlearn) who I was. What I knew. What I wanted. What was waiting to be born. Who I was becoming.

And so I let the questions rise. Questions that would take me forward and backward and root me in the present. That would lead deep and high and far and wide. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just wrote.

I knew somehow, then, even if I couldn’t have yet articulated, that the path I was seeking wouldn’t be found by getting it all figured out. Instead, all would be slowly revealed by allowing the questions to be named, to fill the space around me, to settle deep into my bones.

And then, as Rilke suggested, I could throw myself into living those questions in fullness until I one day lived my way into the answers. Whatever those answers might be and however long that might take and whatever might change along the way.

The first messily scrawled version of these questions – written by fountain pen after tears and whiskey and one of the most alone and lost sensations I had ever felt – showed no hint of what they would soon become.

After all, they were never intended to be anything other than simple journaling prompts – a guide just for myself.

It turns out that these particular questions had much bigger plans.

That night I hadn’t the slightest inkling that the unlined paper I was holding was the beginning of my new path, a new vocation, a calling, a community, a home. But I knew it held something. A whisper of possibility. A hint of what may come. All I really knew for sure is that they were the beginnings of the map that would lead me back to myself.

Back home. A place I desperately wanted to be.

It was months later before I fully realized the power of Rilke’s quote. Months of writing into the questions (and writing and writing and writing) and inviting you all to live into the questions with me (and watching with wonder what unfolded from that invitation). Only then did I fully understand that it wasn’t the just answers that hold power.

It was the living questions themselves that were the catalyst for all the rest because it was the questions that called in all the rest of you. You restless seekers, and you word witches, all you steady and true pinpricks of light against the darkest night sky.

The questions did more than trace my way back home. They cast a searchlight that allowed us to find each other.

Because beings like us, for all the depth of our knowing and wisdom and wanting, tend to get tangled sometimes. It is that brave ability to forge our own way in the world, to forgo the expected, to take the road less traveled, that sometimes leaves us – on those darkest nights of the soul – suddenly without meaning or moorings. We uproot as a matter of our nature, us seekers, and yet we crave a way to root down even in the most inhospitable soil.

Yes, It is our very ability to step into wide open discomfort that often leaves us lost. But it is also that very thing that allows us to be found.

Again and again and again.

And so we found ourselves living in the expansive space inside the questions. In the dance of unknowing. In the learning and unlearning and remembering and letting go. Allowing the questions to unfold within us and between us and around us. Individually and collectively and universally on a sacred journey.

Wild Heart Writers, one and all.

The writing mattered, of course it does. It always will. But what mattered more was the willingness to give ourselves over to the practice of inquiry. The peeling away of layers. To sit with the discomfort of the spaces without requiring the answers to flood in immediately. To expand and let the question live inside, to fill in the empty spaces until it is ready to become what it wants to become.

The questions are the crucible – they hold the alchemy of transformation.

And when the answers are ready? Holy. Holy. Holy.

That’s when the magic begins.

If you are ready to live inside of the questions within a beautiful community of Wild Hearted Writers, we open the doors in less than one week for the 2018 Wild Heart Writing Journey.

If your living questions are ready for safe space, supportive community and fierce inspiration, come and join us as we dive into the depths of inquiry, the power of story, and the safe space where the answers fly freely.

xo.
J.

Do you want to know the question that changed everything for me?  It is one of the questions included in the upcoming 30-day writing journey.  If you’d like me to send you this question, and a sneak peek into the essays that make up the daily structure of the course, send me a quick email or comment here and I’ll send it to you right away. 

The post What is the most powerful question? appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

You feel her come in on a breath through the open window and settle deep in this space. Like she owns it. It’s strange how she can be inside and outside and all around. All at once.

A shiver rises from the base of spine until skin tingles. Everywhere. You know what this means.

It is time.

No matter you are tired. No matter today and this week and this month have worn you down. No matter your bones ache. No matter your weary heart. No matter the undone chores or the unfinished work. No matter the cool white sheets calling you to slumber.

That has all changed, she says, now that I am here.

Sit down and write, she says.

And she says it in that way she’s always had. The way that lets you know nothing will be happening but whatever she decrees. Not tonight. This is how she works.

So you do as she says. Nothing good ever came of doing anything but this.

Her lips graze the back of your neck. She’s closer than you realized. Her voice, all honey and gravel and midnight summer rainstorms and the slightest hint of lonely, right by your ear.

Stop wasting time. Stop making excuses. Set the stage if you feel it’s necessary. Light the candles. Pour the whiskey. Your ritual matters because you believe it matters. So do whatever the hell you think you have to do to loosen the eternal hold you place on your magic.

Just don’t ignore me now.

Put on the music that brings to mind the blade slice and the rising smoke and the way bodies turn liquid when the desire gets that sharp and close. That music that feels like burgundy velvet and tastes like black market moonshine in a smoky underground jazz club from another era.  

Get up. She wants to dance. You knew she would. This was decided long ago, between you and her. Because flowing words demand fluid muscles in a body often locked tight. Hips loose enough for goddess spiral. There can be no tension tonight. This is about melting resistance. About spinning it down just so you can rise. This is all about the release of all things.

You’ll know you’re there when you can’t tell your pulse from the downbeat of the music. When you are one with all that there is. The music and the words and the want of it all.

Because you’ve got to want it. More than you have. You’ve got to want it like everything that just might happen if you lost all your inhibitions. You’ve got to need it like the sweet hit at the root of all your yearning. Like the way you crave the sound of her voice, raspy and low right next to your ear promising what comes next.

You’ve got to move with it, until the words become a dance of seduction. Until there is no more stillness and everything is desire.

Until you do not know any longer if you are doing the seducing or being seduced. Do not worry. It has never really mattered and you couldn’t change it anyway. Just give yourself over to the pull of it. The wanton desire. The holy unholy need. The sweet dance of dominance and submission and the way they live best so tangled you can’t figure where one ends and the other begins. The heat of creation-destruction-and-what-will-be-born-now-that-all-the-rest-is-destroyed.

Have you done as she instructed?

Good. You can begin.

Now. All you need is those fingers. That blank page. Your beating heart. The energy pulse that travels lightening current across your skin.

It’s all right there for the taking in and giving over.

Bow your respect to the one who brings you here.

She nods back, in her own particular way.

You have done the work, she says, the words will come hot and clear now.

Now get the hell out of your own way.

AND WRITE.

Listen with me: {music for dancing with the muse} on spotify.

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