Shadow
A decade ago, maybe longer, a friend recommended Rhonda Byrnes’ The Secret to me.
I read the book but came away feeling ill at ease. Manifesting, to me, is part of what is currently described as toxic positivity, and I consigned it to the same mental trashbin where my thoughts about health and beauty influencers go.
Because sure, with enough money and privilege, manifesting works. But given how capitalism relies on poverty, there’s not enough manifestation possible to, for example, end the industrial prison complex, tax billionaires out of their immoral existence, consider our global siblings as human beings, or halt the murder of children.
And I sure as hell can’t manifest my back pain away.
(Yes, the world as it is infuriates me. And re-reading Baudelaire’s Spleen isn’t helping… when the sky weighs down like a garbage can lid… my translation)
Light
I am lucky, though.
Every day, my husband demands hugs.
Every day, he laughs at my jokes and puns.
Every day, friends reach out and share laughs or memories.
My therapist reminds me that my morbid anxiety is (currently) in remission.
I can find time to write every day, and the read-aloud revisions to my memoir are nearly complete.
And I acknowledge my dreams.
The dream of finding a literary agent.
The dream of publication and seeing my work reach its intended audience.
The dream of more books to write.
The dream of a retirement where writing (and reading and photography) fills my days.
Will thinking about my dreams bring them to fruition? Will I manifest them?
No.
But I can act.
I can write and revise. I can polish my query. I can update my proposal with each new essay acceptance. I can keep taking notes with new writing ideas. I can find inspiration everywhere. (And I can embrace my love of anaphora.)
The weeks ahead will be empowering. My days of spectating my own life are over. Thank you for coming along for the journey.
Yaren, I’m pretty much done with toxic positivity. That is a lovely photo, though—genuine smiles.