When I was twenty-one, freshly graduated from college, I was offered an internship at a small publishing house in San Diego, whose unique children’s books I greatly admired. I’d written a novel for children and studied visual art and was thinking this was a logical step that might lead to a job. They accepted my proposal and I drove to San Diego, rented a studio apartment, and stayed for three months. But overall, I wasn’t happy. I’d strategized to try and get something, but wasn’t really there for the actual experience; I was there for the future security I thought I should try to get. But in striving to connect the dots to a job, I had failed to connect me as well and was strangely absent from the picture.

After the internship, I returned to Seattle, distressed about what kind of work to pursue. Eventually, exhausted from doubting myself and trying to figure out my life, on an impulse, I interviewed for part-time work at a daycare. As I approached the large room filled with 30-40 four and five year-olds, a little girl named Ella stood before me wearing a dress and a long strand of large beads, her straight brown hair cut short and blunt with bangs. She greeted me as though she were the prime minister of a small but dignified country and took me in. Ella had much to say and I was interested. As I sat across from her and her friends, without trying to get anything, I discovered both a new world to love and more of myself.

Our cat Olive died the other day. I had to take a moment to remember we’d had nine years with her; the time had gone by in a flash. Mixed with my current experience of her death is memory of her rolling on the sidewalk, times petting her, all those moments she ran to greet me, and the first time we met. It’s all one. Life moves and keeps moving, swallowing itself as it goes.

Though I felt sad that Olive’s physical self was no longer present, something also left me feeling she wasn’t so much gone as on the go. I think there’s movement in death, just like in life. And death is part of the movement of life. In life, when we keep up with the creative energy within us and where it wants to go next, we feel fulfilled and fully ourselves, leaving behind old forms as we go. Olive was onto the next thing and, perhaps, just keeping up with life. This thought was followed by a strong impulse and desire in me to keep up with my own life better, because these days I’ve been feeling a little out of step with myself.

When I was in high school, as Friday’s classes came to an end and I stepped out of the building to get on the bus that would take me home, I almost always felt free. Friday afternoons, beginning the moment school was out, was the lightest time. All heaviness lifted off me and my mind was close to completely unburdened. I’d been to school but now I was on the other side of that story; I’d crossed the bridge and had, in my possession, two unspent days ahead, two days in the bank, to do with as I pleased.

Those Friday hours were like a bonus – once spent, I still had Saturday. And it was okay to spend Saturday because I still had Sunday. But once Sunday arrived, the feeling of freedom had dwindled almost entirely in anticipation of Monday. There’s no difference technically between Saturday’s and Sunday’s unscheduled hours, but I no longer felt free – because how we feel depends upon our focus and frame of mind.

Early on I came to equate the relief of not having to do anything with freedom, but later discovered this makes for an incomplete equation. Not having to do anything is like not having to spend what we have, which can feel like relief, but there is more freedom in investment. When we invest, we pour fuel into the plane so it can soar. This is what we’re doing when we work on things we love. But even during the final stages of a beloved project, my mind can fill with projections and judgments and those thoughts can spark worry, which feels heavy. Once the project is completed, often a “lifting” occurs and I feel freed, not because the work has ended, but because the worrisome mind activity about the work has ceased.

When I was little and practicing the ABC Song, at the end we’d sing, “Now I know my ABC’s, tell me what you think of me.” Later, I discovered an alternate lyric: “ . . . Next time won’t you sing with me?” – an improved invitation to join in rather than assess and judge. Of course, the expectation is that the audience will cheer and praise the performer – a child – and, in this context, that is mostly guaranteed. However, it sets up a premise and habit in which thinking about and seeking “what you think of me” becomes part of the process. It is a mindset that inevitably hinders us in our creative expression. To create what we really want to create and live what we really want to live, it’s best to understand that what other people think of us is inherently irrelevant. We are the creative center of our work and lives; all power to create emanates from within, so what’s happening out there is not nearly as important as what’s happening inside us.

Seeking outside ourselves is a tricky game. Feedback and brainstorming are part of collaborative efforts, but when the work is personal, a product of our vision alone, even smart feedback can distract and screw us up. The tools for creating what we want are in us, so that has to be the primary place we’re looking.

When I used to think of compassion, I often thought of those who really deserved compassion – someone like a malnourished child in Africa – the kind shown in UNICEF commercials. Someone clearly innocent and victimized seemed like the best and most appropriate recipient for my compassion. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that often what people are enduring or suffering is invisible to me. They don’t always appear afraid, crying and sad, sickly, starving, or bleeding. In fact, they might appear obnoxious, stubborn, angry, difficult; they might take something from me; they might hurt me; they might even be yelling right at me. Over time I’ve come to believe that authentic compassion means compassion withheld from no one – including me.