I'm a Writer?

Or something like that...

I watched a Daoist start a friction fire once. (Remind me to turn that into a Koan.)

It was at the Earthkin Ancestral Skills gathering. As he tended to the coal in his little tinder bundle, he gently blew on it for the coal to gather energy and grow. He said, “It needs just the right amount of care and attention. Too much, or too little, and it will go out.”

He cradled the smoking tinder bundle in his hands as he walked the inside of the circle of over 100 people, and asked, “Who was the person in your life, growing up, that gave you just the right amount of attention?” It wasn’t immediately clear to me, but when we locked eyes, I said, “My Baba.” With masterful control, the Daoist blew the flame to life.

My Baba, whose husband was Ukrainian, was my Mom’s Mom. I was there when she died. When I decided to go to the local college, she asked what I would be studying, and I said, “Mining Engineering Technology.” I grew up in a mining town. My stepdad was a Ground Control Technician, and he encouraged me to get into the industry. Without much self-awareness or mentorship to tease out my strengths, curiosity or passion, it seemed to make sense.

“That’s funny,” Baba said, “I always thought you’d be a writer.”

When I was in elementary school, my Mom got a note from a concerned teacher. I finished an art project that involved writing a short book. It was complete with pictures, a cover, and a backing covered in wallpaper. It was a whole thing. It must have been around Halloween because it was meant to be a scary story. I definitely ran with the horror genre.

My young friend group had grown out of Goosebumps and were navigating the territory of Stephen King. (I’ve read about 20 of his books. The Dark Tower Series might be my favorite of all time.) King’s work seeded the inspiration for the Killer Plant to emerge in my story. Or maybe it was Little Shop of Horrors...

A young protaganist brought a viny seedling-plant back to his family home. The plant grew and grew and grew until carnage ensued. I’m not sure what type of plot devices there were, but I remember a scene where the Killer Plant shot out thorns that shredded through a family member and left entrails sliding down the wall. I wasn’t great at drawing, but there were pictures. I think the protagonist was the only one who survived; I wonder where that book ended up...

The teacher was concerned. Baba was proud. “She told him to write a goddam horror story!” I like to imagine her saying this with her signature scotch in hand, maybe a smoke in the other.

I don’t know what other writing could have influenced Baba. Maybe it was some of the emails I sent, telling stories from Australia while I was visiting my Dad after high school. I can’t recall much else.

“I always thought you’d be a writer.” It stuck with me my whole life. The way I see it with my current ontology (which, believe it or not, I didn’t have at 20 years old), is that it was Spirit speaking to me, through my Baba; she is definitely an Angel.

I’ve written infrequently over the years and have been published a few times in various climbing magazines and wellness websites. I always had writing in my awareness, but it was kinda perpetually on the back burner. I never fully claimed it.

Wisdom would suggest holding labels loosely, not letting them subsume our identity. I was definitely a basketball player at one point in time. And most definitely a climber in another season of life. The math was simple on those things; they consumed my consciousness, and I built my life around them.

In more recent years, I’ve asked Spirit many times, “What is mine to do?”

There’s been a variety of answers, in a vast sea of silence...
(Sacred question: Who/What is doing the answering?)

“Write.” Came the answer, in varying shapes and sizes.
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense!” I would say, time and time again.

There’s a warning about not asking a wise person a question if we’re not ready to heed the answer...