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Unmuting the voice within.

No, I am not scared of writing.

I am terrified.

Gut-wrenching, core-trembling, petrified.

At midlife, my last writings were decades ago. Or at least the pieces that I think were decent, in faraway places I can no longer recall.

I have been tossed by life in a direction that was completely different from what I have anticipated - I became a young mother and wife.

Despite a fairly successful career in a respectable field, the rat race has dulled my creativity, challenging  responsibilities have drowned my voice , my longings for the freedom and flow of the arts have been caged, silenced. 

I have disappeared into myself.

…             …             …

First Steps

With each first step, a path unfolds,

In new beginnings, courage holds,

Forward strides, heart open wide,

In every step, dreams reside.

-anonymous

…             …             …

 Yet deep within the soul is the constant stirring, the whispers that never go away. They are  hidden, covered and buried with the debris and the dusts of a mundane existence.  They remain at the core, ever-present, lurking behind the shadows, waiting patiently.

They are the characters that breathe by the sunsets, the plots that are outlined by the cold breeze of the after-storms,  the stories that spring forth by watching and observing people, their pains and pleasures.

There is the compulsion to type, the impulse to scribble, the push and pull to grab a pen and notebook. To sit, to be quiet, to be alone, to allow the words to flow and drip into the blank screen. 

I am scared.

...             …             …

  Dawn’s First Light

In the quiet of dawn’s first light,

A world anew, bathed in sight,

Gentle whispers of the day’s start,

Hope and beginnings play their part.

 -anonymous

 …             …             …

Original photo by the Author 

I feel ancient. I am old and outdated with technology, overran with the latest trends of the millennial era, left behind by the younger,  talented breed of artists and meta geeks.

As an introvert, there is fear in the vulnerability of inviting strangers to cut me up open, bare, and naked. To be judged. To be called out for my mistakes. To be bashed. To be criticized. To be discarded. To be diminished. To be dismissed. To be cancelled. To be tagged a fallacy, a hopeless, outdated wannabe.  To be offended by my own foolish mediocrity.

And finally, the Unknown. What lies ahead? Who am trying to evolve into? Who will I become and who is this person I am leaving behind?

But here I am, anyway.

I will be honest. I will be plain. I will write what is real, at least for me. I will be the darkness and light and what is in between, whichever is true to me at the moment.

A woman in midlife searching for her voice again. Or am I just unmuting the one I already have?

A regular, ordinary person, a  single mother who, after raising her children on her own, is figuring out what to do with the past and the future, one step at a time.

A beginner in writing.

A beginner in life.

. . .

Before we part.....

A beginning. Or a return. To learn and unlearn. Such is the messy, scary, painful journey of the Self.......    

. . .

Thank you for reading my essay. My name is Abigail Ortega. I write warm, poignant essays and short stories. I also paint simple artworks. If you like to read more of my work, you may join our newsletter here:https://afto.myflodesk.com/qj13kigo4b

    A. Ortega