Reckless Abandon

Reckless Abandon: "Action taken without care or concern for the consequences leading to freedom from inhibition."

I am a writer. There. I said it. It's out there for all the world to see and hear.

Saying it out loud feels like I've taken my clothes off in the middle of Main Street. Exposed. Creepy. Scary. Jack is out of the box. What have I done? I think I'll crawl back under the covers now. But, wait. What is that feeling of freedom I've never experienced? What is that sense of calm and contentment? What is that feeling of completeness? I may not have the answers to those burning questions swirling in my head, but I'm willing to listen. For now, it feels like reckless abandon of my good senses. Reckless abandon? Sounds like an oxymoron.

For most of my life I have written, been keenly interested in photography, philosophy, psychology, spirituality, meditating, reading, the arts and music. I enjoy the art of cooking and believe on some absurd level I could give the contestants on Chopped a run for their knives. Okay, maybe not. Regardless, at my deepest core I know I'm an artist, although I accept I'm not creative in all aspects. I will never attempt karaoke or making another downright ugly holiday wreath. But, I do write. It's in my blood. It's something I have to do.

Growing up, my mother and step-father deeply instilled and enforced their belief I wasn't entitled to a voice, much less the right to use it. I was not to speak unless spoken to. While fear kept me from using my voice, inherent faith kept it alive deep inside. And so did writing. I wrote in the privacy of my bedroom, hidden away for no one to see. I wrote tirelessly through many dark nights of the soul, using a sharp pen as healing balm against the unspeakable and a flashlight under the covers to light the way. Writing became the path for me to keep my voice alive deep within. It gave me a sense of purpose and freedom. At least privately. The countless brown grocery bags and plastic satchels stored in my attic the past twenty-plus years serve as testament.

This past year I cautiously and quietly took my writings out of those dust-laden bags and began to read. One tattered page after another. Words pierced my heart and soul, touching places long forgotten and freeing that which needed to be heard and healed. Many times tears streamed down my face as I listened, sometimes wondering who had penned what I was reading. Other times I laughed out loud, recognizing my sense of humor had helped keep my spirit alive many days. Listening closely to my very own words gave rise to acceptance and understanding my voice need not remain silent. And so I shall speak my truth and write.

It is my desire through the sharing of stories to encourage and inspire anyone who may feel the burning need to practice the art of reckless abandon (in whatever form necessary) in search of that which frees them to live fully and authentically. It may take the form of abandoning false beliefs, picking up a brush, camera or pen, putting hands in clay or a host of other things that may lead to personal freedom from an imposed or stifling comfort zone. It may not be easy, but it is possible. After all, here I sit - in the afternoon of my life - practicing Reckless Abandon without care or concern for the consequences and enjoying freedom from inhibition.

It feels really good. And maybe it's not so reckless after all.