Let that be enough

Eirlys - ©Emily Charlotte Powell

I am lured in, lulled by opening words that are a siren song, that draw me into dangerous waters and onto jagged rocks that threaten to sink me. I am caught on the barbed hook of clickbait titles that rip a hole into my soul and let the monsters in.

Between their words, I read my own failure. Behind them I see how I am not enough. Beneath them I feel my joy being washed away.

The windmills of my mind are set spinning faster and faster. Hustle hustle, whisper the blades. More more, grind the gears. Monetise, measure, optimise, grow grow grow.

Take this place, they say, these friendships, this community, your art and humanity, and exploit the heart out of it and worship at the alter of capitalism, turn creativity into a competition, community into data, turn art into content, and worth into metrics and beauty into a commodity.

And the monsters hiss in my ear as they dig their claws into the soft, yielding vulnerability of my desire. The part of me that longs for my words to be read, to matter, to make a difference, for my art to be seen and loved, for a life filled with creativity unbound, writhes in pain.

You’ll get left behind, they say. You’ll get drowned out in the noise. You much niche, you must be consistent, you must post across every platform, you must have a daily practice, you must sell, sell, sell.

Or don’t you really want it? Maybe you’re just not good enough, not committed enough, not clever enough, not hardworking enough.

Maybe you’re lazy.

Maybe you are just not enough.

But something else stirs. A faint luminescing glow, a gentle effervescence, a breath of warmth, an exhale. I am not a brand. I do not fit in a niche. My art is not content. My writing is not a nurture sequence or a sales funnel or a conversion tactic.

I am capricious and contradictory. I am mercurial and messy. I want to write poetry and decorate tiny mushrooms and make handmade notebooks. I want to paint and play music, illustrate magical stories and draw birds and butterflies and photograph dewdrops and daisies.

And of course I want my stories to be read and my art to be seen. I want to send you our gorgeous book to delight your little ones with festive mystery and magic.

Is Aunt Moll from the North Pole? - ©Emily Charlotte Powell

I want Nox to keep you company when the dark presses close and remind you that the stars can only be seen in the depths of the night.

Nox - ©Emily Charlotte Powell

I want the Birds of Prayer to fly with stories of hope, humanity and kindness to your heart.

Birds of Prayer - ©Emily Charlotte Powell

I want my creations to carry tiny pieces of my soul rippling out to become a part of the joy that lives in other’s lives.

But not for fame or fortune and not if the price tears the soul out of the things that I love, not if the machine of more demands their softness as sacrifice.

I choose, deliberately, stubbornly, to step away from capitalist definitions of success that demand everything be monetised. You cannot hustle your way to meaning. There is no sales funnel for wonder. There is no growth hack for joy.

And so, if you, like me, have been reading words lately that tell you that you must do more, post more, sell more, grow or disappear, that you are not enough, then this is for you.

When the words take their time, give them the hours, days, weeks, years that they need and send them into the world filled with every ounce of beauty and feeling that you can muster, and let that be enough.

When they come freely and lightly and in the moment, gift them into the world lightly and freely without a second thought, and let that be enough.

When your heart aches to stich and sew, to felt and crochet, take what is fabric and thread, yarn and fibre and transform it into softness and love and comfort and send it into the world, trusting that its warmth will be felt, and let that be enough.

When your hands long to shape and mould, to paint and sketch, caress life into clay, brush joy onto canvas, press longing into paper, and release it with all the wonder you carry within, and let that be enough.

when your soul longs to be filled with music, raise your voice, breathe steady and true, dance your fingers across the keys, let the vibrations form songs that beat as your heart and send them soaring into the air, carried by breath and spirit, and let that be enough.

And when all you have is your presence, quiet, steady, and true, offer it gently to the world, knowing that being here, fully and wholeheartedly, is always enough.

With wishes for endless inspiration,

If you would like to support this creative adventure, you can buy our book, Is Aunt Moll from the North Pole, a handmade gift from my Etsy Shop, Ink and Oddments, or upgrade to a paying subscription.

For anyone choosing an annual paid subscription in December, I would love to gift you a copy of our book and a print from my collection, as a thank you for gifting my creativity another moment of freedom to explore and create, for joy alone.