Thinking about my blog for this week (and lack of posts over the past few as well as lack of maintenance of my pho*blog project) and the plethora of excuses that I could use that may or may not be true I decided it'd be best to just stick to something simple.
Because I really do have a ton of legitimate excuses beyond procrastination. And being sick. And being lazy. Which I'm really good at all three of those, by the way.
The number one, um, "excuse" that is underlying it all and that has kept me from doing anything blog-worthy and cramped my ability to be creative and focus on my art is an issue I can't ever remember not dealing with in everything and it is, obviously, one that comes up just when I think I've conquered it.
I have a paralyzing fear of commitment. And not commitment in the sense of "should I buy the pink converse or the black stilettos?" (always go for the converse - never pay for stilettos, I mean, c'mon, we all have a slutty friend we can borrow a pair from) but commitment when it comes to doing anything remotely healing, psychologically helpful and/or opening for myself. And mostly - if I were being real honest here I'd say entirely -when it comes to unconditionally and unabashedly expressing my heart : my art.
In the innermost part of my being, I've spent the last thirty-plus years wanting to be an artist because that's where my freedom was. And for the heavily influenced developmental part of those thirty-plus years, I was told that being an artist amounted to nothing. "That's nice" was the consistent answer I received as a child from the adults in my life and general disinterest was the response I received from people I valued once I became an adult. Needless to say, my talent was "nice" but it wasn't supported or encouraged and rejection always seemed to lay on the other side of my commitment to staying true to my heart.
So I hid said heart away. For years. Only letting it come out in forms where people wouldn't be able to directly comment on my artistic abilities and thus, I was safe.
Until about this time last year when I began to find clarity and climb out of the incapacitating abyss that is postpartum depression. And I could no longer ignore the drive and passion screaming atop its lungs to be released from within the depths of my heart.
Oh my God, I so did not intend for this post to become so deep. I was only going to tell you about Twitter, I swear. Too late now, ha! Bwahahahaha! (Thank you, Mother Caffeine.)
I began just sitting on my bed at night with some of my daughter's colored pencils and an old sketchbook I had. I'd put on a baseball game I'd recorded from earlier in the day (yes, baseball is my place of zen) and start swirling. It's like my hand was driven to draw these swirls and swirly trees; I can't exactly explain it other than to say it was my heart telling my conscience to "just move the f#&$ over, shut f#&$ up and enjoy the f#&$ing ride". (I gave up swearing for Lent, remember? And, yes, it's <expletive-ing> killing me.)
And I have enjoyed it, completely. For the first few months, I enjoyed it all to myself. I'd show one person who I knew would unconditionally support me. Then, slowly, I began to grow that little support group from just one individual to more, widening it to include people that I knew always wished the best for me.
And the feedback I got was incredible. My art, my talent, my heart were no longer "nothing" and neither was I.
Then, of course, with that realization came the all-part-of-the-processing conversations of "could you just imagine if I'd been encouraged in this, what I could be doing now?!" But that's not what's important because that kind of thinking is only going to keep me from appreciating having finally climbed this mountain. And that kind of thinking is only going to encourage my fear of commitment.
Which is the point I'm trying to make. (No, really, I have a point.) I signed up to sell my "wares" at several events put on by my good friend's Marketplace Expos. And the first one is April 23rd so I have work to do. And I have to do that work while the part of me that is thoroughly ecstatic about this opportunity is fighting to the death with the part of me that is completely paralyzed by fear of having committed to doing this.
Which is why I haven't gotten any blogging done of late or much else for that matter. Because the fear bleeds in to every other "commitment".
That being said, I did commit to Twitter. Because being sarcastic, cynical and snarky - and having an easy forum to subject the world to it all - far, far, far out weighs any fear of commitment.
And by sarcastic, cynical and snarky I mean:
hkmichelleblog hkmichelle mar 28
anyone have a poster of Lupe Vellez? i'd like to hang it in my WC. (some of you prolly won't get the humor. sigh.)
hkmichelle mar 30
Off I go to teach art to kidlets. Pray for them that their innocence isn't destroyed by me. Did I mention: it's a Catholic school.
hkmichelle mar 30
Not sure on this: Is it a bad sign if they start running after u w/pitchforks & torches while ur the guest art teacher @ a catholic school?
hkmichelle mar 30
exactly how bad is it if the fit ur kid is throwing is enuf to make even the homeless guy on the corner put away his sign & act concerned?
hkmichelle mar 31
so far today, scrabble has rejected my attempts of "peeing" and "fart"
hkmichelle apr 1
scrabble won't take "peeing" or "fart" but it'll take "porn" *&* it'll add an "o" to the end of that. wow, scrabble. nice standards.
Nothing is simply black or white. Life'd be so much easier if it was. Can only imagine how conflicted Michael Jackson was.