Weekend Prompting: What are you made of?

Every Friday, there will be a prompt to lead us to the weekend. I would love to see your responses or thoughts about process in the comments. Or, even better? Leave us a link to your own blog and response there!

 

I challenge you to sit, breathing just like you do, and just see the world around you. Just a few minutes, a few breaths. Then, set a timer or page limit (for however long you want), and WRITE! Just put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard). Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just ground yourself in the prompt. Come back to it if you need to. But, for all that is good in this world, tell us your story.

 

This week’s prompt was inspired by the following quote from The Name of the Wind, a really excellent tale by Patrick Rothfuss.

 

It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.

 

The timer was set for 10 minutes.

 

***

 

I am made of blood, muscle, bone. I am made of words that have been stained into my soul. If you were to reach into my head, you’d find the neurons traveling on words, on lines of poetry and strings of sentences. I am made of single moments layered upon one another. I’m made of the people who have loved and hated me. I am made of heart and soul and coffee. I am made of greater stuff than I ever admit, because I don’t want to see arrogant – but not claiming what I’m made of is irresponsible and it’s false humility.

 

 

Claim Check 2

We don’t like to claim what we’re made of, losing the claim check in winter coat pockets, pulling it out months later, with a peppermint wrapper stuck to it. We look at the unfamiliar and generic numbers, we never can remember where we checked it. It’s too heavy, I can’t carry it, I’ll be back for it later.

But these are lessons we learn, over and over again. This is how we winnow out what’s real – what keeps coming back up? We are made of all these pieces, it only looks linear in a novel. Our own stories feel more fragmented and lonely, disparate pieces of who knows what. We look at them, scattered around and ask “This is all mine?”

Claiming, declaring, making it out own. How do we do this? How do we know what we keep? We choose and sometimes, it chooses us. Sometimes, the ways it all comes back says more about who we really are, rather than who we think we are. What am I made of?

There are days that question is testing more than others, when the depth of that question requires a diving tank, but I’ve not been certified. Doesn’t matter – I still have to dive deep, go into the places of the ocean where I can’t see a bottom, can’t see the sky.

Trust is required.

 

 

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