Find me a blacksmith..

What if I didn't have to avoid this? And I could just do it. Fingers dripping with stories eternal, waiting to be told, what if I removed the decades of paint and pain from these walls and used them to write the words? Instead of dipping fingers into hot wax and rolling it between my fingers as it cooled, staring into the flame and letting my thoughts run me, what if I gathered them into neat lines of words to tell the tales my heart longs to write? And what if I turned flame into torch to melt the wrought iron gates of fear that prevent me from even trying? Someone get me a blacksmith that can help me turn this fence into pieces for a bridge. I absolutely must cross this chasm. How did I get like this? So afraid. I don't remember feeling this way when the sun was rising in my youth and the world was full of possibilities. Until I got a message, "sorry we don't need this version of you." So I put it in my backpack and gave everyone the version of me that pleased them. This next act will be different. And I hope I hold myself to it.

Meant for More than Brick Making

There is no middle ground for me; either the words come so slowly that I cannot feel the pulse of them or they are a thousand tiny hearts beating to be spilled, clamoring at the tip of a pen. The few moments I have taken to myself the past few years I have gazed into the white abyss of an open document, hypnotized by the cursor, and allowed it to blink away my seconds until other duties demanded my attention. Adulting. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I can’t just close a web browser and expect that I am not going to still need to make the things my soul needs me to make. I have tricked myself into believing that I have nothing to say. That I should put away my “childish” ways and join forces with the millions of other grownups that are out there laying the bricks for society. But that didn’t bring me joy. I had the thought that I wasn’t happy because I was just a closet rebel, masquerading as a conformist when the reality is that my narrative of, “whoa is me! How can I be expected to live creatively when I have chosen to lay bricks for a living? How can I possibly have important work to do when I spend all day building castles for monarchs?” has been stifling me completely. Yes, yes my family has to eat. We like cable, school clothes, and steaks but the most purest obligation I have to my family is to live authentically and intentionally. To do and create the things I must. We are not peasants. I am not an endentured servant destined to build big things for other people and then die. I control my thoughts, my decisions, and what I allow into and out of my heart. I have put so much effort into the machine of making sure we have what we need that I have forgotten that they need me. They deserve my creativity, my empathy, and my love. And bigger than that, they deserve for me to believe that I deserve my creativity, my empathy, and my love. Maybe, just maybe,I will learn that even more than my obligation to others, I am tasked to feel these things toward myself. I promised myself this year that I was going to peel off the masks given to me by others. I want to be true to myself, above all else because that is what will serve me and the people who love me best. If you have wondered if I have lost my mind, the answer is yes, I have, and gladly. Someday I will tell you what I received in exchange. And I can’t wait.