Maybe, but what if.


This is a new kind of struggle. I can often feel, or be tricked into feeling, like I’ve given the best part of me away already. To my husband, to my kids. To past works. As if I’m sitting here in my life, watching the rest of it fly by and I have nothing left to offer.

On our drive home from Florida there was a stretch of road in Tennessee where I was driving, ear buds in and cranked up and I wept over and over and over again. Everyone else in the car was sleeping or busy, not really paying attention to me. I had my sunglasses on and every song that played and the wide open road and the place my heart was in: it was an overwhelming peace.

I got honest with some demons, I was thankful for others, I was open to being this emotional and heavily imbedded spirit in my own life. I am a spiritual being (we all are, if you want my opinion) and I’m awake to it. I operate in it, I thrive there. I dream there and love there and live right there. And this stretch of road carried me, just for a few hours, in a reality where I was welcome to do so.

Since being home and back to the regular demands of life, I’ve cried and wept more. But they’ve been angry and sad, hot tears. Impatient tears. Not thankful, not full. I’m tired here and I know exactly what I want but not how to get there. I’m afraid to say it out-loud, or ask for help. I don’t think failure is the lure that keeps me waiting, it’s no being worthy to say the things I want to say or offer the expertise I want to offer, or even art, because who am I?

And aren’t the real artists, poets, writers, photographers, authors, dreamers, teachers, coaches, travelers, life-givers already doing it? Aren’t they all already being everything you want to be?

And in my sad open places where seldom I’m brave enough to show it, the answer is; maybe. But what if?


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