“So that’s me. Self-definition can be a daunting task, but I’m getting closer…
If the tale of my great flawed truth has made you think about yours, then I’d love to extend the branch and have you share yours below!
Ask yourself, within the prism of your life, where does your greatness show itself and where do your flaws hide…? Place them together, and you’ll find your whole truth…”
➵ ∞ #DiaryOfaDeludedHeart
This is an expansion to the comment I posted:
“This goes for even the most hard-headed of us. For even the stubborn, steady earth bows down to the seasons change.” I am one of the very hard headed, stubborn folk. My past streaming beyond me has no end. Like your wire person in the image with the strands flying behind me. An endless cape of dread. Probably a contributing factor of my persistent depression.
My favorite psychiatrist reinforced the fact that as long as I revisit the many projects I start, I remain functional. I need external support to tell me that it is ok to be a flawed human. Lacking in self esteem, overloaded with creative thoughts, I feel that weight. I know that when I create I am a better part of me.
Words have buoyed me recently when my body caused me to sink. Without my arts, I have no fat to keep me afloat. Singing, dancing, spinning, yoga, walking barefoot in the soil, growing things, identifying little things others don’t notice, capturing the moment in a medium is what I do, who I am for now. I’m not a maintainer, a constant. I struggle with routines.
I’m more the branch of a tree than the roots. I fly in the wind, I grow leaves that are shed, I hold snow, squirrels and birds rest upon me. This is my joy. My “hard to catalog” self is a catalyst. Teaching art to children made me happy until it became more about the politics of space and less about the needs of children. I crave their fresh insight, their quirky speech, whispered endearments and leaning hugs. This I will do again in the future.
I’m wandering around in a way that used to infuriate my mother. Taking pictures of feet and the ground, the sky as I spin. I got examined as a child, I was odd, not so willing to conform, but terrified to speak up. Silently, invisibly defiant. Afraid of being caught in the act of being seen as me. Yeah, what a sentence.
Air isn’t seen, but it exists. Wind can be felt. It moves people, turbines, water, sand and branches of trees. I’ve come full circle. I am all things but then I am trying to remain an unseen force so I can do what I like without criticism.
I like the surprise of private discovery of small things. Like a squirrel got confused and started to collect toys to play with instead of food to eat, then hid it in a nook. In the forest, collections of plants, rocks and sticks are appropriate. In a house, you get called a hoarder.
In some ways I will never mature. I love rocks. Bright shiny smooth textured bits of weathered compressed oolitic grains surrounding creatures to make fossils in rock. Marble, sandstone and limestone pebbles feel right in my fingers, bumping along in my pocket.
I love beach glass. Man made rocks. Our glass bottle garbage smashed into small bits and rolled across the sand, through water and eroded by wind to be picked up as I stroll along the shore with a child, a man or by myself. I have yet to create with these gems of the river, but the desire to find certain colors or shapes is great. I’m at odds with the method of binding them to a jump ring. I want others to feel the sooth and rough that makes me smile. I’m trying to figure it all out. Later.
I love branches. The shapes and curves of a fertile organism that are shed during storms and strong winds. I collect some branches, grape vine tendrils, to capture the grace and beauty that is not manmade. Branches are like little versions of a tree trunk without the long history. Cast it in plaster and it stays.