Are you willing to be misunderstood?

We were sitting on the verandah enjoying the crisp mountainous air at the foothills of Mount Kenya. 

It was my family. Our conversation was animated and we had come around to talking about me.

My poetry in particular.

I don’t remember what prompted it or the exact words he said, but the sentiment inferred that my poetry reminded him of sinister magic.

(Now if you’ve read my words, you’ll know the space they come from is indeed one of magic. But sinister magic, no, that’s not where I play.)

My compassionate part knew not to take him too seriously. He didn’t understand the world I lived in.

My protective part on the other hand was deeply upset. My work and I had been mis-understood and I wanted to shield us.

So I did. I stood up for us both and said things I probably should not have said. But in hindsight, I recognise his point of view gave me a gift.

The realisation that to fully share myself in the world, I’d need to risk being mis-understood and maybe even not liked.

And in that risking, the path would be kept clear for my unhindered expression. 

It's a journey. I am on it.

And I know an antidote to stifling my voice is the willingness to be misunderstood.