Your Power Is Where You Left It

For years, I thought that power belongs to the heroes of books. People who were created in the minds of writers and endowed with such power, which in reality would belong to at least several people. The power was associated with fairy-tale worlds, poetic epopeds, bedtime stories. Power did not exist in my life at all. I switched to survival mode.

Until a certain age, I did not analyze the lack of power. I just lived. However, somewhere deep inside me there was a belief in the lack of influence on anything. I believed that change can only come from outside.

I liked to imagine when I was a child but my action ended on that. I imagined that I was the hero of the movies I watched. I imagined that I deal with taming a small lion after watching the movie “ Born free”, and I swim with the dolphins after watching the animated film “Zoom the White Dolphin ”, and because I had red hair, I pretended that I could be the same as the redheaded dreamer from the movie “Anne from Green Gables“

I identified myself with such heroes for a long time. Walking on the streets I had the impression that I looked, moved and spoke as they did and in a moment a great adventure would take place. Something unexpected would happen to me. I would see a little lion cub on the pavement, I would jump into the ocean to swim with dolphins and I would be the greatest dreamer in the world as Anne from Green Gables. And some great momentous event would make the whole world recognize that I had a greater meaning than I thought before.

Well. Adventures and great events bypassed me as if I was invisible. I lived a peaceful but rather boring life filled with school duties. I did not go beyond the usual patterns with my behavior. My life did not change as I wanted. Only my thoughts were always bolder than me. But thoughts can not be seen. And I was shy and withdrawn. That blocked me from acting enough.

I got used to not acting. And life is action. It’s a move. It’s a change. If you do not like these attributes of life, then you do not like living. And life will quickly reciprocate this feeling.

Have I ever had flashes that I could take care of writing? During the school period never. I was used to the fact that writing a good essay did not mean anything but just correctly completed tasks. Nothing more. Nothing further. Nothing better. Nothing special. Was it strange that it did not occur to me to write? Maybe.

Later it was only worse. After the signals from my first manager about the lack of style and mistakes made in the written justifications of tax decisions, I stopped writing at all. Even postcards. Writing one sentence bordered on a miracle. The fear of committing any error was overwhelming. I was a very scary person. Let’s be clear, I was a coward. I believed in my weakness decisively.

I did not write. I did not think about writing. I read a lot. I had a lot of thoughts. Sometimes they seemed to me well-formed, or even revealing. I ignored it easily. How could I be revealing in anything?

The first time, I came to think about writing, was when my aunt wanted to tell her story of life. My task would be to record these stories. I missed this opportunity on the whole line. My aunt did not live in the same town. I was overwhelmed with my work and thinking about the lack of influence on anything. And her story was a ready book that would never see the light of day. It was my book that life offered me and I did not accept it. It was an invitation to a writing life that I rejected.

I rejected this offer by effectively postponing the implementation and above all I could not imagine that I could write this book. One short recording survived. That’s all.

And you do not even know how it hurt me. It was proof of missing a huge opportunity. Only when I started writing I managed to deal with this loss and my own participation in it.

In some twisted way, thanks to this experience, I have become more determined to write. It was a lifelong lesson, which I only did in a small part. This part, which now does not allow me to interrupt, reject or give up writing. Maybe it’s more than I think.

Will I ever write a book? I still can not imagine it. I do not have such a ready story in me. Maybe the book I was about to write lost forever and no other will ever rise again. It’s hard but I can deal with it now.

My writing is a gift that has been given to me to take care of it like an ugly duckling and maybe remain as that. I will not worry about that because ugly ducklings also have their rights.

My writing is not a gift so huge that you can see it with the naked eye.
My writing is not a gift so huge that I do not have to deal with the lack of topics.
My writing is not a gift so huge that I have in my head a lot of projects associated with it.

This is a delicate gift that I have to look after on a daily basis.
This is a delicate gift that plays tricks like a little puppy.
This is a delicate gift, about which I could never manage to convince myself or others.

This is a little gift with a small outlook for a great fulfillment, but I look after this gift as the smallest and inconspicuous plant and I will continue to do it. This is my commitment to the Donor and myself. This is also the debt that I would like to pay back to my aunt and her story, which will remain unknown.

Writing is the power that I left and now I have found it.

Will this power change the world? It is impossible. It’s a tiny power. For the world too small, but enough to change me alone. This is happening. This I experience. I am surprised but I also feel joy. No one has been able to do it before.

And if you feel that you have lost your power, do not worry. Your power is all the time where you left it. Seek and you will find.

The power is there and is waiting for you. No one can pick it up but also nobody can find it on your behalf. You must do it yourself.

I deeply believe that we were all born to have a power.

So let the power be with you.