The Ingredients Of My Craft

I look at where I was in the beginning and I come to the same sentiment as I did back then. In whichever way possible and by any means necessary, I made a commitment to myself to create and recreate me on a daily basis for the rest of my life.
I have to want to improve in order for me to be better. I have to see where I am in an honest perspective.

There are times when even the strongest denial cannot blind the eyes to the obvious. In my case, I knew there was a need for change.
But how?
Is it really possible for someone to change?

I admit this was intimidating to me. Everything takes work. Even laziness takes effort. As a matter of fact, I have seen people waste more energy on a job than they would have if they had just done their job in the first place. Either way, everything takes energy. I suppose I was uninformed of my energy levels and unaware that I, me, you, and everyone has exactly what we need to be successful in life.

I was in a humbled position. I knew that my temperament needed to change. I knew that I needed to change. I also knew that I had a voice, which I needed to find somehow. This way I could find my outlet and improve.
I have always wanted to be a writer. I was always into poetry but I never dared to share my thoughts or openly read anything I would write.
I never spoke about this with anyone because I was afraid of the critics and afraid of the interpretation.
I was afraid that I would never be “Good” or to see that awkward expression on someone’s face after reading my thoughts because they wanted to spare me of my feelings.

Eventually, my need to write overcame my worries.
Besides, who cares?

The critics that criticize in most cases never dare to bleed, or show themselves, or create something openly and allow them to be a subject of interpretation.
What I write and what I choose to write about is written for me.
I decided if I was to become the writer I want to become that I would have to write in a specific way.
I decided that I would need to make a commitment, which was similar to Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hour rule, which explains it takes this many hours to perfect one’s craft.
I am not sure if this math is an accurate science or not; however, I do believe in the art of perfecting one’s craft. In my case, my craft is the moments I have with you, here, at this little space of mine, which I call my loft.

I come here to perfect my craft, which is me, and I come here, rain or shine, in good weather or poor, in sickness and in health, and I will continue to do this until death do us part; however, if I am to do this then I have to do this properly.
I have to be honest here. Even if I am dishonest in every other aspect of my life, please, I have to be honest here with you, my truest friend, myself, the keys I type on and the screen in which my words appear.

The main ingredients to perfecting my craft or any craft for that matter are humility and modesty. I cannot portray myself for the sake of my ego or concern myself with the acceptance of or the interpretation of others.
They do not and cannot matter. In order for me to perfect my craft, I have to be diligent. I have to be relentless. Above all, I have to be honest and endure.

I came across an idea I wrote a few years back. At the time, I was starting a new journey. I found some attention around this time but when it comes to attention and when it comes to the distraction of compliments, I learned (the hard way) that I need to disregard this the same way I disregard the critics.
The following thoughts were mine then and they are still mine now—

• Humility [ hyoo-mil-i-tee ]

Noun
1. The quality or condition of being humble. Keeping a modest opinion or estimate of one’s own importance, or rank.

• Modesty [ mod-uh-stee ]

Noun
1. The quality of being modest: freedom from vanity, or boastfulness.

 2. Regard for decency of behavior and speech

 3. Simplicity

Humility is to honesty what modesty is to the absence of pride. If I am to be any two things, then let me be them.

 After the world stripped down around me, I began to understand what pride does to people. I could see why they say pride comes before the fall. I saw the wreckage from my own ego and the decisions I made on its behalf. At that point, I knew I needed to change. With my circle of friends gone and my relationships crumbled, I had nothing else but my lonesomeness and the slow-moving time to consider the corner I placed myself in.

In a room echoing with emptiness, I picked up a pen and paper, and I began to write for no other reason than to purge me of the toxic thoughts and the depressive thinking, in which I swear, this was lifesaving.
I poured every sin and every mistake onto a page. I spelled every wrong, and every doubt that I held onto. I figured, “If I’m going to change, then let me start with being honest.”

I began with admitting the obvious; I womanized. I took advantage of anyone and anything. I lied and hid from my own truths. I stole, and when I say stole, this does not limit my thefts to tangible value. This does not limit my thefts to cash or diamonds. No, in some regard, the theft of emotion is far worse, but emotional theft is no worse than taking emotional hostages. In which case, I was guilty of both.  I stole. I stole more than money, in the grips of my outrage and in the depths of my hatred for both me and my fellow man, I stole as a means to level the playing field, which I always believed was sloped against me and in everyone else’s favor.
By writing, I chose to purge myself of these truths and by placing these facts of my wrongs onto paper, the weight and strain of my past began to lighten.

I have listened to men talk about holding their firstborn child. Each described this as an overwhelming experience, however, I was frightened at the time of my child’s birth. I did not have natural instinct. Instead, I had fear and insecurity.

“What if I screw up?”
“What if I’m not a good dad?”
“What if every fear I have about me is true?”
But there she was; my little girl, and here I was afraid that she might inherit my defects.

I would love to say this was the catalyst of my change but no. I needed more encouragement to begin my journey—or wait, maybe this was part of my journey; perhaps this was just me in my earlier hours that begun the pathway to perfecting my craft. See, the truth is my craft is me. I am my craft.

In the fallout of my choices and in my most lonesome stages, I began my change with simple tasks. I learned to feed myself because there is nothing more nurturing than a meal. However, my depression was so strong and the voices of my worry would not stop whispering. I had to replace the emptiness and fill my life with value. More accurately, I had to replace thought with action.

Rather than decorate myself in a false sense of pride to cover my fear of loneliness, I chose to be alone. Rather than sit with the wring people, I chose to sit with the right people, namely me.

I chose to move away from the weight that held me down. And by weight, I mean the heavy energy that comes along with toxic relationships and one-sided friendships.
I learned about depression and the importance of my role in my personal wellness model.
I concentrated on my own worth and made a clear decision not to place my value where it doesn’t belong. As well, I learned the value of faith. 

• Faith[ feyth ]

Noun
1. confidence or trust in a person or thing: faith in another’s ability.
2. belief that is not based on proof
3. belief in God or in the doctrines or teachings of religion

In this regard, man is his own trinity. Without confidence, trust, or belief in one’s self, man is empty. Emptiness is depression and depression is dying alive.

So—
In a room echoing with emptiness; there was no other choice than to address the main ingredient.  Me
I have spoken with others about depression, change, and the grips of mental illness. In all cases, there needs to be an outlet. Otherwise the pressure builds up.
This is my outlet, here with you, a cup of coffee, the window in my loft and the sunrise which is now underway.

I have to do this if I am to be what I want to be

I can’t worry about interpretation.
I can’t worry about critics.

All I can do is write and log another hour towards the perfection of my craft, which is me.

One day, you’ll see, I will perfect my craft and pull of my trick
You, me, the farm I want to build and all this includes, I swear, it’s ginna be a blast
You’ll see

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