I love writing and I write for a living. Yet, I still find myself compelled to use words to channel whatever muses are flirting with me at the moment. I have an on-going love affair with. . .words. So, really, I write to live and live to write. My life force cannot be divorced from getting down onto paper whatever must be there. It’s pure survival for me. If I’m not near my laptop, I’m scribbling thoughts onto paper. If no paper is present, I improvise and write on my hand. I have sat on a beach with the beautiful, soflo sun shining overhead and, having forgotten my pen, used my phone to text myself bits of prose that popped into my head. If there was a way to write while in the shower, I’d do so. Then there would be no need to try and remember what it was that came to me while shampooing my hair. Blogging is relatively new to me and I like it. It’s nice to occupy a piece of cyber space and express oneself. It is weird knowing anyone can read whatever is written (since I know some off the wall people) but those people do not mean anything to me (therefore, who cares)! There is much more I would like to write but am unable to because of life’s circumstances. This currently unpublished material should land me a gig as a script writer for Lifetime. In the meantime, some of the words I tap, scratch, and text into existence get published through this venue. Others do not. Blog world, readers, friends, and loved ones, welcome. I’m honored and happy you came. Do stay for a bit. Kick off your shoes, settle yourself on my couch, and enjoy a great cup of coffee. Sugar or creamer, anyone?
This is one of those raw, emotional posts that is cathartic in nature and also contemplative. Last week, I had a conversation with one of my heroines. This particular heroine was forced into the scorching, hellish furnace and made it out (thank-God). She more than survived. She is passionately living her life, is gentle with herself and her past choices, and is a living model of strength (for me and others). The talk, much needed, ended with me stating that I felt “like a mess.” She emphatically said, “No! You are not a mess! You are a work in progress!”
Of course, her statement triggered a metaphor. I realized I am not a mess (or just messy). I am ARTwork in progress. Art, according to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, means a “skill acquired by experience, study, or observation.” Work (same dictionary) is an “activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something.” Artwork, therefore, involves working at life (using our God-given faculties). In the process, we become art pieces. Messy, at first, as we flex our cores, our selves. Eventually, though, because we have acquired the skills necessary, not merely to survive but to succeed, we experience break throughs and can love our beings (even when our easels are splattered with paint and our canvases look like disasters).
Fears and insecurities can crumble and become the concrete mix we need to build strong “me’s” and “we’s” (if we allow ourselves to be vulnerable). It doesn’t mean we are going to always feel unfaltering or resolute or certain. It does stand to reason we are not going to accept fears or failures without some WWF action (and the days we are unable to get in the ring, we call our life-lines who will splash some water on our faces and bandage our cuts).
So, life, this week I can say, “bring it” (and mean it). I am not afraid (at the moment). When I do feel guarded or hesitant (life will guarantee this), I will try and remember my truth. Although I am still a “mess” (at times), I will recognize that life can instigate the messiness. But I am a piece of art in the making. Life, step off. Because when the product is finished, I will be more formidable, loving, and self-compassionate (beautiful, too).