It was fall. I was in the passenger seat, at a red light, and I am fairly certain that I was talking about Bob Dylan—maybe “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues.” While I was no doubt extolling the creative virtues of that gravelly yawper, the driver of the vehicle goosed the gas and yanked the wheel hard to the right, sailing us over a ditch and into an abandoned parking lot. Gravel spewed from beneath the tires as she found the brakes, skidding us to a halt. Having no earthly idea what had just happened, I sat frozen in my seat, gulping air.
Ok, that part about jumping ditches didn’t really happen. We remained at the traffic light, patiently waiting for it to turn. But something did happen that sent me, metaphorically speaking, sailing over the ditch.
“Nobody cares,” she’d said. “Nobody cares what you’re writing or why you write or who your muse is. People roll their eyes when you talk.”
Green light! On we rode, but I was still back at the red light, grappling with an acute case of emotional whiplash. Perhaps my friend was well intentioned. I hope so, anyway. I was a college senior, preparing to head out and create the life I’d been dreaming about since Peter Pan was my imaginary friend. Whether right or wrong, I took her words not only as commentary on my character, but on my very identity.
I’d written my first story in the fifth grade, but it wouldn’t be until early high school that that dream would begin to take hold and once it did, I held on right back. I was voted Best Writer and Most Likely to Succeed. I had a mentor who encouraged me. And upon high school graduation, I would pack up and head for the Alabama Black Belt and continue the extraordinary process of becoming even more of myself.
My friend landed a crushing blow that day, but, although I was thoroughly discombobulated, I was able to stash the incident in the back of my mind and carry on with my studies. I continued traipsing through cemeteries with my Judson sisters and making questionable decisions involving the roofs of condemned buildings.
It should be apparent that, as I writer, I was simply out and about creating the kinds of life experiences conducive to good storytelling. No one ever got hurt.
That I can recall.
But I digress.
About this same time last year, as I was beginning to take my first shaky steps back into the creative life I’d imagined all those years ago, I tripped and fell over the writing of Ryan O’Neal, frontman of Sleeping at Last. I have a deep appreciation for taking words and ordering them in such a way that, on the whole, they wrap themselves around you and refuse to let you go. In studying his lyrics, using them as a catalyst for my own inspiration, I chanced upon a series of songs with numbers for titles—there were nine. Being a curious sort, I found that each of these songs corresponded to an Enneagram type, which then left me with the deep and burning question, “What in the world’s an Enneagram?”
If you aren’t familiar, such as I was, the Enneagram is a system of personality typing based on emotions. The idea is that each of us forms our worldview and understanding of others—including ourselves—from the perspective of a particular emotion from which our core motivations and fears arise. Intriguing, especially for someone with the unfortunate tendency to be controlled by her emotions. Mostly, I wanted to know what my Enneagram type was so that I could listen to the Sleeping at Last song that went with it. It all sounded like such great fun.
A Four.
Motivated by the need for authenticity and individuality, driven by the fear that my flaws are just too much for others to deal with; that, in essence, I am just too much. And I began to remember that day at the red light. While that incident did not stay at the forefront of my mind, it would, on occasion, creep out over the years from the place where I’d hidden it. Juxtaposed with a life story I didn’t intentionally write, I allowed those words to haunt me into creative silence. Gradually, I toned myself down a little more until I became submissive to the Noelle I thought I was supposed to be.
Ironic, isn’t it? For someone who craves authenticity, I’d allowed myself to give in to the expectations of others while forcing myself behind an array of facades to compensate for it. Single mom. Daughter. Teacher. Hard-working employee. No eye rolls to be found there. To be sure, all of those things are admirable qualities, but what I find to be less admirable is that I’d smothered my dreams and passions in the process and convinced myself I should be passionate about more realistic endeavors. There was no fear to be had in living a safe life.
Except there was. Playing it safe because I’d become terrified to dream left me with a deeply faulty mindset that permeated every facet of life, from relationships to both personal and professional goals. By that, I mean that I refused to even set goals. I had one objective in life: survive, and do it gracefully.
But life is rich, if we’ll allow it to be. Or, rather, if we’ll allow ourselves to be.
It’s early days yet. I find myself falling back into a lifetime’s worth of habits on a daily basis, wherein I flail my arms about, trying to figure out where exactly I’ve mislaid myself this time. When I let fear take hold, I find that I vacillate between two positions—I’m either tempted to retreat into a life of safety, or I attempt to force originality, whether on myself or my writing, which sort of defeats the purpose.
After all, what if I already am who I’ve always dreamed of becoming?
P.S. I hear Bob Dylan is a Four. I’m just saying.
