I often talk about my path – my way – which started towards the end of 2015. But it didn’t start there. That was a defining moment, but there were others before.
The story I like to tell, though, is sitting down for coffee with an insurance guy. A former insurance guy. He had just quit his job so that he could work for an art gallery. He had contacted my boss and had a lunch meeting with him. He also scheduled time to speak with me.
I asked him what had brought about the change. He said he started reading The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron. I hadn’t heard of it. Over coffee I decided to buy a copy. I bought it used on eBay… I was saving up for a wedding. Another story.
And then I began…
“For most of us, the idea that the creator encourages creativity is a radical thought.”
I started writing then. Every morning. Four months is all it took for the unraveling to start. I was stripping my life down to its core. Many things were wrong. Off. It was traumatic, and it was cathartic. And it was what I need, whether or not I wanted to admit it.
Things happen that are inexplicable. That don’t seem to make sense. A book enters your life and does magical things. Like it was supposed to…
Be open to those possibilities. Be open to everyday magic, regardless of how wu-wu that sounds.