“Passing through the Garden of Gethsemane “

I drained the mug to the very last drop of caffeine, pierced him a look over the rim and took a little too long to return it on the table.
” Pardon?”
Though I heard him clearly the first time.
” Why did you stop writing ? ”
It’s a reasonable question; except I can’t answer it.
I don’t have a way of explaining. I don’t know why.
“Mind block” that was the easiest explaination; except, it wasn’t true.
I’ve been spending nights constructing plots after plots that ended up scrunched up and thrown away; because my pen was being rebellious exposing too much,letting memories seep through that I thought I had carefully sewn close or loses ink and draws a blank when I needed the words.
I mostly came up with mediocre poems that didn’t sit right on the tongue or plots with characters so unreal they bored even me.
Maybe I’m coming up with something, which I’m slowly realizing is a very bad case of fear.
Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not living up to my potential. Fear of disappointments.
You see, when you are good at something, people expect you to be good at everything.
It’s frustrating.
He was still staring at me, waiting patiently for an answer.
Honestly, I don’t know which was harder; wearing a mask or telling the truth.
I thought for a moment and decided not to lie.
” I’m afraid I’m not good enough,” admitting this takes my breath away. I feel as though I am revealing new information to myself. Learning a secret I’ve been keeping from myself.
I wanted to take back those words and tell him I was just kidding, but, ‘just kidding’ is what people say when they mean every word.
So I just sat there bathed in shame.
He smiled encouragingly and shifted in his seat, ” We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane; but to choose doubt is like choosing immobility as a means of transportation.”
“Each time one follows their deepest desires, fear is always there wringing her hands,cautioning with her litanies of what-ifs. Do not try to counter with reasonable arguments, just move on and get fear out of your way.”
He could talk. He was already a success; I mean look at how simply he talks, his words were fashioned in eloquent prose; he was a natural.
However, his logic was inarguable.
” I cannot promise you that it will be easy… the courage to go deeper is found by letting your desire grow larger than your fear.”
I was merely nodding as he kept dispensing his words of wisdom.
“Writing opens us to live intimately with the world. There are no deals here; it’s not a selective process. ”
I could feel the passion in his voice, the way he curved words into new shapes.
“You cannot trade the courage needed to live every moment for immunity from life’s disappointments and sorrows. If we refuse to touch the places of sorrow or confusion within ourselves, we cannot cultivate the ability to be completely present in our moments of joy and ecstasy. ”
He sipped his coffee and ordered a refill of mine. After a moment of sigh-producing, shut-eyed satisfaction; he added:
“But if we are open to sorrow as well as joy, paying attention to each moment and not shrinking away from our emotions, we can expand our ability to hold ourselves and the world in our hearts.”
He slapped an irritating mosquito near his ear.
“I will remind you of what you already know; that you are a great writer,”
Ha! Ha-ha! I want to laugh at his face. I fight back a scoof. “Yes, thank you.”
“The confusion and the insight, the excitement and the boredom, the shadow and the light that comes with writing allows you to give and receive more in each moment. That’s a full and rich life, my dear.”
A thoughtful silence swallowed us and when it spit us out, He was stretching a crumbled pamphlet towards me, “Here, make sure you participate in this.”
Silently, his eyes watched my face as my fingers straightened the paper and traced the words.
It was an invite for slam poerty , I have never been in front of an audience before and this gave me an uneasy feeling.
“I’ll be terrible , ” I muttered to myself
He let out a deep laughter, ” I’ve got news for you. There’s going to be all kinds of terrible in there, so you won’t exactly stand out.”
Since my shelves of excuses were empty, I put the pamphlet in my bag and thanked him.
We weren’t sure whether to hug or shake hands or just wave goodbye, so it ended up as an awkward combination of all three.
It seemed as if we had crossed the bridge from mentor-mentee relationship to some sort of friendship.
I was frequently in debt to him for throwing life lines to me as I floundered in seas of confusion.
His words were a healing balm spread on an ache I had not distinguished.
Replaying them in mind was a source of hope; and hope fed on hope until it was a song in my heart.

12 thoughts on ““Passing through the Garden of Gethsemane “

  1. Hey love, I’ll give my comment on this here imalihilda0@gmail.com. ..meanwhile pass my regards to your friend.


    1. I will; the friend is imaginary though😅 that a conversation between myself and my conscience 😊

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Sherille Choni May 15, 2019 — 8:45 am

    This is good, have you ever thought of writing a book?


    1. Thank you. I’m working on it😊


  3. Beautiful ❤️. I love that it’s so raw … it’s spoken to me ❤️ Thank you

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Nice piece there. Fantastic article there.keep up.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. That’s a good friend and mentor there.

    Your poems are good, too.


  6. This “Friend” kept me reading it. Our thoughts are exactly represented by him.

    Nice Captivating work.


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