What sort are you?
We really are a cup-and-saucer kind of people in this abode. As I stood before the great window overlooking the neighborhood, I wondered what a passerby might think of me sipping in such a manner. Would the gesture seem odd? I turned to my studious husband working on a final research paper and noticed his even more dainty tea cup. How did this happen? Why do I use the saucer? As it turns out, I am terribly clumsy. The saucer was meant to catch the dribbles of tea and to hold a biscuit. I have adapted its use to coffee and a (half!) donut. And just one second ago, I grabbed the cup without the saucer and dropped coffee on my shirt. Damn it. Sidenote: Lest you think I always eat donuts, I would like to say I made a kick-ass oatmeal this morning complete with hot cinnamon apples, toasted coconut, raisins, and brown sugar.
Things have seemed soft lately, despite a rigorous social schedule. Today is the first day I've not had a social event in an entire week, which is terribly straining for my introverted self. Each activity was quite pleasurable, but it's often not until I am settled back into this solitary place that I realize how much I needed it.
As the baby despot sleeps on her throne, I ponder the new momentum in my life. Yesterday's work was supremely productive! As I walked home from a writing lunch with a happy belly full of wine and Caesar salad, I noted how good it felt to be mentally exhausted again, to pour out thought after thought, inane and important, banal and profound onto the welcoming pages of my journal.
There really is nothing like the marriage of your passion and your work.
And speaking of passion, my mind has been swirling with brave thoughts of art. I am reworking definitions for myself and what it means to be a 'writer' and am uncovering a lot of fear preventing me from taking myself more seriously and also realizing how much energy exists inside of me toward this work. It's easy to write, it's easy to be around other writers. Taking this small, informal workshop has breathed new life into my craft unlike any I expected. It assigns me weekly readings (this week's was phenomenal!) and several timed free-writes from prompts. Additionally, the teacher will accept voluntary submission of rough drafts of essays, and I am still working on my subject to see if I could indeed do this. Since the topic is writing through inner change, I have several I could delve into (conversion to agnostic/atheism, my conversion to feminism, or the change of motherhood). All seems like too much to bite and all very confusing!
I am wondering as well...
- Is art art if it remains unshared?
- I am any less an artist than my dear +Umber or +Jillian because I don't have shows or sell my work or spend as much time on it? I believe they would certainly give a resounding NO, to legitimize me...but there is still something to putting your livelihood on the line. There is a difference, but I am trying to unpack it truthfully (do I use my inability to do what they do as an excuse to keep from taking risks for what it is I do?)
- Do I have to embrace the 'arty' lifestyle and mimic other's creative process and reside in their work-space or can I TRULY make it my very own? (Can I be more drawn to people than nature? Can I take less than amazing photos and still hare them? Can I be Type-A and highly-planned and crass? Can I prefer the city to the country? Can I own more books than plants? Can I love Twinkies instead of kale? Can I wear PJs all day instead of boots and skirts? Can I have small humans instead of large canines?) Sidenote: this list not meant as any ridicule of their lifestyle, but just a comparison of how I have seen two of my intimates live as artists.
- Why do I write? What is my truest truth that I need to extract?
- What if I hurt others by writing that truest truth?
- Can I still write every day, delve into pieces and pour myself out on paper and still consider myself a writer even if I never publish a single thing?
- If I do want the notoriety and publication, can I have them or am I too scared?
Just me, my cup-and-saucer, these quiet few minutes, the sound of the wind-chimes, the steady type of my husband's fingers, and the freedom of unanswered questions.