Some thoughts...

I wonder at this act of penning down one's thoughts. What could be the motive, the intention behind this?What does a poet want to achieve when he puts his words out into empty space? Does he find salvation when these words touch other hearts and convey the meaning which he filled them with? How does he know that the words have reached the target and whispered something? Does he crave recognition, attention--is that the motive? If there wouldn't be a soul to applaud, appreciate, even criticise or ignore, would he still write, sing, dance, paint, express?

Or does he act out of a compulsion? An unstoppable urge to create, to give life? Maybe the intention behind his creativity is not to share or find glory reflected in the beholder's eyes but to just bring out what's welling up inside. Manifest the inner song. In that moment of creation he is God Himself, a spark of the divine, expressing himself without any expectations.

And maybe, just a moment later he comes down to the human realm, to share his creation with others, just for the joy of sharing. And possibly finds happiness when appreciated, or validated.

Reading Keith Johnstone, you come across a number of 'aha' moments. Then you try it out, put the book aside, reflect...maybe you experiment a bit. 'Keep you head still', 'Lock into the others' eyes', 'Keep the toes out'...you try these subtle adjustments to see if they create different conditions, within and outside as well. His suggestions begin to work, slowly, unawares. There was this book, 'The right to speak', by Patsy rodenburg, which I'd read years ago. After practicing some of those voice exercises, suddenly my voice took on an amazing texture, freshness and aliveness. Keith has a similar effect on you. It's as if a number of blocks that have accumulated inside start to melt away.

One of my biggest fears is that my son will grow up to become just like me. So I cringe everytime someone comes up and compliments with: 'He's just like you, a replica,' and I almost feel like I should stop them in mid-sentence. There are many things that I dislike in myself, that I'm struggling to unlearn, which I don't want to see reflected in him. Maybe these were perpetuated by my upbringing, with the bitterness and humiliations that refuse to fade away from memory. It gets all the more suffocating when I see him go through similar things, many times because of our own unconscious behaviour. At times when I lose patience and yell at him, when his eyes fill up, I sit up with a jolt. I have to remind myself over and over that this little plant needs all the space, air and nourishment...and I have to catch myself from tripping over, at my most exasperate moments, so that I don't trample upon his tender self-respect.