For accessibility and ease, you can listen to this post narrated by Mike:
I haven’t written in nearly two weeks now.
Between getting the Sacred Circle ready, inviting people in, and having family visit, I had to take a pause on writing. It was one of the longest pauses I’ve taken in six years of writing this blog.
And it’s made me reconnect with why I write in the first place. It’s great that people read. It’s great that people benefit. But I write for me. I write because it feels like I’m choking on the unexpressed words if I don’t.
I write because there’s a vision—an unseen vision—bubbling up to the surface. And for just 30 minutes each weekday, I get to interact with that vision. I get to let it come through me. I get to intimately commune with it. And trust what I can’t quite see.
And unpack. For me, writing has always been the process of unpacking. Germinating. Making a vision real in the world so that I can begin to work with it.
It’s about making art. It’s what we visionaries do all the time.
I don’t care if your art is coaching or energy work or painting or music. If you’re sharing a vision through the lens of your genius, it’s art. It’s our lifeblood. And we visionaries would shrivel up and die without it.
Nobody makes art because it’s a “wise investment” or it’s incredibly profitable. It can absolutely be those things—and ideally is. But that’s not the primary reason we make our art.
We make our art because we have to. Because it’s the natural expression of ourselves. Because, like breathing, it makes us more alive. We can never share ourselves or receive from others without it.
We create our visions because it’s the best container we know to share our essence—our genius. Because we feel more like ourselves when we do. Because we’re channeling something down that connects us to something bigger than ourselves. And, strangely, also makes us feel more at home.
And the irony is that, although that sounds incredibly selfish—only focused on ourselves—it’s the most selfless gift of all to the world.
Because we don’t ask for anything in return. We’re so filled up by our art, by our visions, by sharing ourselves with the world, that we forget to be resentful and exhausted.
We don’t feel insecure. We don’t beg others to validate us. We just go on creating more art. And allowing the world to bathe in our genius.
Genius is generative and generous. It creates more than was there before. It gives life where it wasn’t. It makes paintings dance and writing sing and pictures come to life.
It fills us up so fully. And shares its magic with others. And it’s really, really easy to be generous and keep sharing when we feel that good.
We create for the devotional act of creation. Not because we feel like we’re supposed to. Not because it’s the “right business decision.” Not because we need to feel worthy or validated in some way.
We create generously because it comes from the place of our genius. Our birthright. Our inborn nature (what that ‘gen’ root literally means).
And, honestly, it’s heartbreaking that the world doesn’t always validate that. That sometimes we’re challenged to make a thriving income on that alone. That, depending on our work, some art will be more or less socially valued than others.
I’m not saying that all visions are easy to create and build wealth from. But I am saying that any vision worth creating is one that we feel compelled to do anyway. Even if we need to take a job or fund it otherwise or put it on pause for a few years.
Because what we gain from it—that feeling of coming home—is so much more than anything else we can ever receive.
And the only way anyone has ever pushed the boundaries of what’s possible is by creating an invisible vision. And the only way they’ve persisted in the face of adversity is by loving what they do so much—being so fueled up by it.
Creating a vision from the place of genius.
So I write. Because, regardless if anyone reads it or likes it—and regardless if it even helps me unpack ideas that further my understanding of my work—it’s this moment. A quiet moment I get to have again and again each day and week. Where I can be with my work. Commune with my work. Feel my work. And selflessly share it.
All while being more fueled than most other places in my life.
It’s really freaking easy to keep writing year after year when you feel that. And really easy to miss it when you don’t write for just a few weeks.
And that devotional practice—whatever it is to you—is something every visionary needs. It doesn’t have to look remotely like mine. But it does have to make you come home to yourself.
In so many ways, being a visionary is about peering into the darkness and courageously walking that path home to yourself. Shining a light all along the way so that others can follow their own path home, too.
It’s hard. It’s scary. And if we didn’t get just the tiniest glimpse of that light, we’d probably have given up long ago.
But even the smallest drop of that light is so enriching, so compelling, so nourishing, that we can’t turn back. Once we’ve felt the beauty of our own magnificence and the magnificence of the world around us, it’s over. We’re done for. We’re suckers for that vision.
And we’ll devote the rest of our lives to creating that art. In quiet moments where we can experience it. And generous sharing for others to catch just a piece.
We share because we love. And we love because we are. Because we are that genius. It’s our essence. And we’re always coming home to ourselves.
I don’t share because I want to become someone else. Because I don’t feel good enough. Because I want to change my income or followers or public image or whatever.
I share because I want to become more of myself. Because I’m a genius. And I’m so in love with the art that brings me closer to that genius.
And, in my experience, that’s the type of work that tends to affect people on a deep, deep level. Art, full of raw emotions, that captures that genius.
If we’re lucky enough in this life to find a vision—even one that feels impossible or scary—we can’t just take that for granted or bury ourselves in stories about why it’ll never happen. We have to hold onto it. We have to cherish it.
We have to create devotional practices that help us to intimately commune with it again and again.
Because the best part about a vision is that it brings us home to our genius. And it’s from that place that we can have the greatest impact on the world—starting with our own.
Questions for Reflection:
*Answer in a journal, in the comments right here, or take it over to the Sacred Branding® Facebook group where we can support one another:
What’s so special about creating your vision?
— Do you ever get frustrated or resentful when you feel your work isn’t nourishing you in all the ways you need? Do you ever feel like your really big ideas or visions are too impossible and could never possibly happen? Do you sometimes doubt that going after what you really feel called to do could ever be sustainable?
— Do you have any devotional practices to your vision? Is there anything you do again and again—not necessarily for the external results it gives you—but because you love it so much? Is there anywhere in your life where you feel you’re coming home to yourself?
— What if choosing your vision—in whatever small way you choose—is actually bringing you deeper into your genius and essence? What if creating art from your genius is the most generous thing you could possibly do—and the way you could most greatly contribute to the world?