well, shit.

Rule your mind 

or it will rule you.

Buddha

. . .

The world feels so heavy right now. I don't know how to shake it, how to set it down. I'm waiting for the fog to lift, but I have a feeling the only way out is through: Can't go over it, can't go under it, we'll have to go through it.

I kind of hate that.

So I lose myself in journals and dreams and puddles of tears, clinging to a hint of possibility and relief. In public I attempt to "fake it until I feel it." I'm good at the first part, but the feelings rarely follow.

I read about a study the other day that said most people who were diagnosed with depression as children are probably actually bipolar. I was ten.

A year or so after my diagnosis, when the fog started lifting, I remember the psychologist telling me to be careful, that I'd find myself missing the depression at times. It had defined my identity and way of being for so long, and now I had to figure out who I was without that old, destructive friend.

Until now, I pretty much thought my depression was over and done and under control. It would come back and try to set up camp every now and then, but I could recognize it. After a bit of polite resistance, I'd finally tell it to pack up and leave, locking the door behind it.

(Source)

But pregnancy hormones are something new, and they seem to have left a window wide open. And it's hard, and I'm scared. I am struggling, and I'm trying to believe that this does not make me "less than" -- that having depression does not dictate who I am at my core. It doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother or teacher or person. It is separate from who and what I am. It is an ILLNESS, not an identity.

So onward, trusting that, eventually, I'll find the light again.

meanwhile

Mary Oliver

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

--

I've been going through a little something. Due in part, I think, to the transition back to work, but also just patterns and tendencies in my own life. I still want to write our birth story. (I still want to send out Caleb's birth announcements, which were supposed to be Christmas cards, too.) 

But not yet. Not today.

It was reassuring to read an old post on Cup of Jo today, where I was reminded of the poem above. One foot in front of the other. . . On you go.

middle school will break your heart

Notes from the eighth grade, 1999

Seriously.

I'm still sorting. And some parts? Some parts ain't so easy.

full exposure: south africa, part two

Return.

“You learn not to mourn every little thing out here, or you’d never, ever stop grieving.” 

Alexandra Fuller

________________

(Read Part One here.)

I came home from Cape Town in the middle of winter, my funds depleted and my long-term relationship crumbling. Turns out, you can't escape yourself. Being a life-long fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's, you'd think I'd have learned that. But as my mom would say, there's a big difference between knowing with your head and knowing in your heart.

Speaking of Mom (or as I'm starting to think I should call her, "Oh Wise One"), my generous and ever-supportive parents helped me rent an apartment near school so that I'd at least be living somewhat independently, within walking distance of campus. Exciting stuff, right? My own place, a new school, and all that? It could've been. But.

Notice how my blog dries up right about this time. In 2008, I wrote a total of three posts. I was too busy falling apart to write, too exhausted to try and hunt down gratitude in the fog of sadness. And I didn't know how to ask for help, couldn't pinpoint what was going wrong.

That first semester back at school, I had this recurring dream in which I'd adopted the children I worked with in SA. We'd be on an airplane together, flying back to the States, me trying to figure out how I would feed all of them.

My waking thoughts were similarly consuming. I'd be hanging out in my living room, studying on the couch, when suddenly I’d start visualizing how five or six entire homes from the township would fit side-by-side in the rooms of the apartment where I lived alone. Wracked with gut-wrenching guilt, I'd cry for hours on end.

I was afraid of the dark. 

My first month on campus, I participated in an after-school tutoring program in conjunction with one of my classes. On the first day, I walked from my apartment over to the building where we were meeting. Two hours later, as everyone was leaving, full-fledged panic set in: Oh my God! The sun is down and it’s pitch-black outside! How am I going to get home?!? . . . Slowly it dawned on me that I was no longer in South Africa, that I was, as it happened, in one of the safest towns in America. I was going to get home the same way I’d come. Still, I had to force myself to walk the six blocks back to my apartment, shaking and checking over my shoulder the whole way there. 

From that point on, I drove to tutoring, but even then I wasn't free from fear. As when driving anywhere, I made sure my valuables were locked safely in the trunk. It took me months to stop reaching for the car stereo to stuff in the glove box whenever I parked.

Through all of this, I managed to excel in my classes, earning straight A's and eventually graduating Summa Cum Laude. Nevermind that I had almost no friends and was a hot emotional mess, or that my relationship of five years was destroyed (and destroying me). I was fine! It would all be fine. After all, I told myself, plenty of people encounter poverty more widespread, violence more gruesome, and they don’t fall apart. As you might imagine, this did not make me feel better. In fact, in only served to prove that I was an even greater failure than I'd initially thought.

I’m embarrassed to admit:  

That my college years were a social disaster. 

That I lived from a place of fear, sadness, and ego, 

and that I still struggle with this. 

And in some ways, that I am who I am.

I wish I could go back to my then-self and tell her it would be all right. Tell her to pay better attention to the people that loved her, to ease up every now and again. To reach out, laugh more. In equal measure, though, I wish the future me could come tell this one it will continue to get better. Most of the time I’m still wading through the muck with more questions than answers.

The other day I was talking with Andy* when I had a crazy revelation: That every experience I’ve had since South Africa is tied to it in some way. While my motivations for traveling there in the first place may have been murky at best, I continue to carry the hearts of the children I worked with in my own. As a result, if I’m not doing something to help them, then I’m not doing enough. Which means, in a strange twist of subconscious, that I am never enough. For over four years, my whole life has been less-than.

While I know this can’t be right, part of me won’t let go. To know that that level of poverty exists, to have witnessed it up close, and to do nothing about it . . . It seems despicable. Especially when you realize that such poverty is manmade, in this case the direct result of human hatred. And I can’t make sense of it, of any of it. I get lost in the darkness. 

So I apologize for not having a tidy wrap up, a way to package up this particular place of shame and tie a little bow around it.  All I can say is: I went to South Africa as a way to run, and I’ve been carrying around fifty-five children ever since. I don’t know what’s happened to most of them, or if I’ll ever see them again. But for what it’s worth, I loved them. I will always love them. Now, however, the time has come to let them go.

Thanks for bearing with me, folks. I'll be sure to follow up with a bit of bliss soon (in case those joyful little faces weren't enough!). Enjoy your weekend.




*Remember that “destroyed relationship”? It’s now referred to as “a rough patch.”

full exposure: south africa, part one

Escape.

At the Cape of Good Hope, November 2007

"I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know - unless it be to share our laughter. We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide." 

James Kavanaugh

________________

For a long time, I've struggled to figure out what this blog is actually about. (It's like that line in Lost In Translation, where Scarlett Johansson's character says, "I just don't know what I'm supposed to be." Both blog and author are stumped.) More recently, I've also wondered who, exactly, I was writing for, and why. 

emy in the world began as a way to document my volunteer trip to South Africa in 2007, and my audience at the time was clear-cut: I wrote for college professors, people that had donated to the project, fellow volunteers, and my family. Blogging was simply a step up from the mass emails I'd occasionally send out during my first year abroad, as a student in Germany (back when our internet was dial-up and facebook was just an idea). While I do believe that what I wrote at the beginning was authentic and honest, it certainly wasn't the whole story. 

Here's the part I never covered: South Africa knocked the wind out of me. I'm only just learning how to get back up on my feet. 

When I decided to embark on my third continent and second expat adventure, I was a student at the community college I'd spent most of my teen years ridiculing. Without a doubt, COD was the "College of Dumb-asses" in my (clearly superior) circle of friends. Deciding to forgo the expensive education at the school I'd initially decided upon was painful but necessary -- and not just for cost-cutting reasons. 

Attending the College of DuPage ended up being one of the greatest blessings in my life thus far. As a student in the (now-defunct) Honors Program, the majority of the classes I took were capped at around 20 students and taught by full-time faculty (who to this day remain some of the best, most interesting people I've ever known). In addition, any Honors class I took while in the program was tuition-free. So naturally, I enrolled in pretty much nothing but Honors courses.

For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who learned like me -- gifted thinkers that cared about what they were learning, doing, and contributing. My classmates also came from every walk of life and were many different ages. I loved everything about this. In a religion class, for example, someone would pipe up and say, "Well, I'm Buddhist, and this is what I think," or, "I actually practice Hinduism, so if you want I could arrange a tour at my temple." My partners on group projects were often decades older than me, and as such brought real-world knowledge and wisdom to our work that I wouldn't have had access to otherwise. Talk about first-hand learning! I couldn't get enough.

COD also gave me the flexibility to pursue whatever I was interested in without worrying too much about the cost or my transcripts. So I went for it: I took metalsmithing and participated in my first-ever gallery show; I enrolled in a writing workshop at an all-female youth prison; I went on a weekend caving trip to Indiana (best P.E. credit ever); I witnessed the warbler migration in Ohio and fell in love with bird-watching; I immersed myself in a Native American Experience course . . . and on it goes. No-holds-barred, experiential learning, where every participant is there because they want to be? It was a dream come true.

This didn't change the outside world's perception of the school I called home. Saying you go to a community college, even one you love, doesn't elicit quite the same reaction as, I don't know, "Harvard" might (or even just a well-respected state school). Towards the end of my two year stay at COD I was feeling a bit fidgety (read: having nervous crying breakdowns and hiding under my desk at work every now and then). I'd earned a full scholarship to a local four-year college, where I planned to study education with the aim of student teaching abroad (ah, yes -- like facebook, this, too, once existed only as an idea).

Once again, telling people the name of my future alma mater didn't impress either one of us. For one thing, it was a mere 20 minutes away from where I grew up. I needed to get out, and fast. But I also needed to finish my degree.

Enter South Africa.

It was an adventure, and full of excitement, to be sure. More than that though? It was an escape.

I'm embarrassed to admit:

I went to Cape Town under the guise of serving others. In reality, my main focus was myself.

I am deeply, deeply ashamed by this. But I also know that I am deeply human, and therefore flawed beyond measure. In many ways, I've also been paying the price for five years.

Did I love the children I worked with? More than I ever thought possible. Did my work there have value? Some, to be sure. Would I go back? In a heartbeat. Do I regret it? Only sometimes.

The thing is, I still can't make sense of it all. I ran from myself, sacrificed for the wrong reasons, and threw my world so completely off balance that I've been spinning ever since. 

There's a world of difference between "taking a leap" and "running away," and it's not always easy to tell which is which. Sometimes I wonder if, right now, living abroad, I'm actually playing it safe in some ways. For the past five years, this has been my comfort zone: a perpetual state of in-between and what-ifs. And because of my reasons for going to South Africa, I've believed I'm getting what I deserve.

Perhaps, then, the greatest leap of all would be to change my mind. To decide, once and for all, that I am worthy of life. Flaws and all.


More to come in Part Two . . . . Stay tuned . . . . x

watch this: brene brown on shame

This. Is. Awesome.

(For you, Mom. You can bet I'll check her book out now.)

spelling test

A few months back, I enthusiastically signed up for the Sketchbook Project. Not just "the" Sketchbook Project, like the normal everyday, open-to-all project, but a limited edition version (fancy, I know). This, after failing to complete the first (normal everyday) project I signed up for back in 2010.

Would you like to see this year's progress?

Yep, that's right: A whole lot of nothing. 

Well, OK, to be fair, I did take the staples out of my book in order to eventually rebind it.

But other than that . . . nada.

Of course, I signed up thinking to myself, This time will be different! This time I will own this project! I CAN'T WAIT!!!!

And then of course the book stayed in its shipping envelope until last week, when my trembling hands decided it was time to face those white blank pages. 

DO YOU KNOW HOW TERRIFYING WHITE BLANK PAGES CAN BE?!?

I've done nothing but pace around them since, waiting for a moment of genius to hit before those pages tear me to shreds. (Interesting little role reversal there, no? Ha.)

The theme I chose for my sketchbook is "How to Spell and Other Things to Learn," and I brainstormed numerous connected ideas -- I wanted to incorporate learning Arabic, as well as learning how a culture communicates other than language. I wanted to examine rule-following (as in spelling) versus rule-breaking (as in a life well lived). And hopefully I still will.

There is still time. There is plenty of time. But I need to start.

At this point, it's clear that the what I most need to learn is the very thing that comes so naturally to my students: How to emphasize the process, rather than the product.

That, and how to start. Just. Start.

I don't know why this is so incredibly difficult, but I know that if I can push through the literal pain of facing those pages, I will be a better person for it. I need to unlearn . . . to relearn . . . As per usual: Fingers crossed.

---

UPDATE: Annnnnd cue breakthrough! (HOORAY HOORAY HOORAY!) After publishing this post, I got down to doodling while letting my mind wander. Instead of staring at the pages, I put a pencil in my hand and let it do what it wanted. Mostly that involved jotting down lots of little words and phrases, as opposed to visuals (I tend to be a pretty verbal person, if you haven't noticed). And then suddenly . . . BOOM! Everything came into crystal clear focus. I mean, forget Polaroids -- my mind was on it like a top-notch SLR. And now I have the perfect framework for my project, a structure to follow in order to more effectively push my boundaries . . . I'm so happy I could cry. Welcome back, enthusiasm. It's been a while.

in the raw

Last night I reread some of my journal entries from the past couple weeks. This one, from January 1st, relates, at least in part, to what I wrote about yesterday, so I thought I'd go ahead and post some of it here.

*

"...I am bubbling over with resolve this year, just about ready to burst with all the everything I've had swimming in my mind lately. On marriage, my next steps, fear of being an artist (I want it so badly it terrifies me), noise on ways to live and what makes up the "self", noise of song lyrics and movie lines and tips on better living.

I've come to the conclusion that I read far too many blogs.

Generally I gravitate towards certain breeds of "lifestyle" blogs, full of juicy bits about clothing, food, products, etc -- and not a lot of depth. The writers of these blogs always seem so very together. Like some sort of whitewashed, new American dream: BEHOLD THE MODERN WOMAN! Sure, she sometimes gets stressed from her day-to-day duties (i.e., "doing it all"), but she wouldn't have it any other way. Ain't life GRAND?

These blog writers also either a) photograph extremely well (and have friends to take those pictures), or b) are budding photographers themselves. Though I admit to reading these blogs every damn day, they make me tired. I either start to feel like I'm short-circuiting from information overload, or I'm not measuring up in the slightest. 

Today it hit me: I don't want a "lifestyle" -- I want a LIFE. A messy, rich, rough-around-the-edges, honest-to-goodness (and occasionally honest-to-a-fault) life. It doesn't have to look like or be anything other than what it is, and it most certainly doesn't have to photograph well.

Once of the reasons I think I've been so fixated on becoming a photographer these past couple years (or at least on learning to take decent pictures) is because "everyone else was doing it." Everywhere I looked (at least in blogworld) my eyes were filled with incredible imagery of the everyday. It made my own life seem less and less vibrant. But each time I'd start to read up on cameras and photography, it left me feeling unbelievably, painfully bored. So I'd move on to wishing I had talented, artsy photographer friends to not only collaborate with but also make me look extra cool and pretty in photos (to post on my blog, of course. Hello, narcissism!). Since this is not the case, again, I'd be plunged into a whole new "my life sucks and so do I" pity party.

ENOUGH ALREADY.

I'm giving other people's blogs a break for awhile. I'm spending time figuring out what the voice deep inside of me has to say, what it wants to be. I'm tired of noise -- I want insight. I want to know what I have to say, want to figure out what and how I think, and to clear out the clutter that's in the way of me figuring it out. Right now, there's hardly anything I know for certain. I'm overwhelmed by input, body, mind, soul. It's time for something different. I don't want resolution; I want renewal. Cheers, year ahead. And cheers to whoever I'm still learning to be."

*Added for the sake of irony? Or maybe because I believe in paradox.

world wide open

Lately I have the distinct feeling that anything is possible. 

This feeling refuses to believe otherwise.

The world is glowing again. I am remembering how important it is to look, and to listen. 

And I am so in love with it all.

connection

Sick day: On the couch, but in good company

Spent much of the morning at the doctor with what I thought was just another sinus infection. After suctioning my ear canals (yes, it's as gross and painful as it sounds), scoping out my sinuses, and ordering several x-rays, it was confirmed that I have "a deviation" in my left septum and some "childhood tissue" remaining in there. (I'm no medical expert, and the doctor is French, so that's about the extent of my understanding at present.)

The doc prescribed an antibiotic for the time being, but I have to call back to schedule surgery to remove the excess tissue. Apparently it's a simple outpatient deal, but I'm a total wuss when it comes to anything medically-related -- just ask the nurse who had to inject me before I left. It was all hand-wringing and attempted yoga breathing on my end. (Which, as it happens, is exactly where she stuck that needle -- right in my rear. The doctor said it would help with swelling? I don't know; things are weird here). 

The rest of the day has been spent on the sofa, drinking tea, and thinking. All that rest has me feeling a little better, though my head's still pretty scattered. I'm having trouble transitioning into what I really want to say, the reason I started this post in the first place, namely:

thank you.

The comments, emails, and messages I received after my last fear post were so uplifting and supportive, it truly knocked me out in the best possible way. So to anyone that wrote, called, or commented: Once again, thank you.

Interestingly, all of the responses I got were from women. It was like the universe swelled up to counter the viciousness of the girls in my memories, and to help me paint a new picture of what female relationships can mean and be. And I don't mean to get too chintzy, but I felt like I'd hunted around in the darkest part of myself, only to emerge holding a lifeline of shared experience and support. The connection to something so much greater than myself was unbelievably apparent. As I let my old ghosts go, I found warmth and light waiting to replace them.

Via Note to Self

I also found the world's best husband, my perfect fit, who, when I was curled up in ball feeling vulnerable and clutching my stomach, climbed right down beside me and wrapped his arms around me. 

I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat. 

That was the night after publishing my fear post, which had left me feeling more exposed and wounded than I was anticipating. I didn't need help or advice, just processing time -- enough space and minutes to fully let the feelings pass. In these instances, Andy's so incredible at finding a balance between being there and letting me be. He is steady and gentle. 

I only hope I can be so good in return.

Thanks again, friends (I think I can safely use that word now). Until next time.

full exposure: to be a misfit - the middle school years

For a long time, at least as long as I can remember, I've had the sense that I just don't fit. But it's never something I talk about, apart from with my mom and Andy -- until today.

I grew up on three wooded acres in the midwestern suburbs. Now, right there is something that set me apart from many of the kids at school, who lived in houses situated elbow-to-elbow on whirling, infinite cul-de-sacs. These neighborhoods were full of children riding bikes and playing kickball until the sun set or the dinner bell rang (or so I imagined). Not that I ever really wished for such a life; the woods were, and remain, where I was most at home. I had one neighbor my age, who lived on a secluded street just behind our property; but mostly I would wander around on my own, climbing trees and building forts, or swinging as high as I could on the swing set while belting out show tunes.

When friends would come over, our games tended to be highly imaginative: We'd pretend our swings were unicorns taking us to distant lands, or (and this is so utterly embarrassing, especially for a sociology minor, that my stomach is turning just thinking about it) we'd play "Slaves," a game that required us (in the role of the titular slaves) to make soup for our master. We'd collect berries, leaves, and twigs, and mix them all up in a big bucket filled with water. Occasionally we'd also dig holes, because apparently, to a white nine-year-old in the suburbs of Chicago, that's what slaves did.

None of this, however, left me feeling all that different from my peers; I had friends from all sorts of backgrounds. Some were the children of doctors and ad-execs and lived in mansions; others had been relocated from the city projects to subsidized apartments in our area. In third grade, one of my best friends, the daughter of a South Korean scientist, lived at FermiLab. (Cottesong Park, are you out there? Remember me?)

These surface-level descriptors were never much of an issue for me. As my mom would say, "You notice race the way you notice hair color: Oh, red hair. Oh, brown skin." In my mind, there wasn't a whole lot of story associated with such traits -- red hair was red hair, brown skin was brown skin. You had money, or maybe you didn't, and neither was particularly good or bad. (Though, full disclosure, I did ask for and receive a black Cabbage Patch Kid, as well as a black Barbie. Obviously I was drawn to them in some way. You tell me why.)

Instead, what set me apart was my high sensitivity and (dare I say it?) intellect. This is still the case today. I process the world in a deep, analytical, and complex way. On the Myers-Briggs personality scale, I'm a tried-and-true INFJ -- a combination found in only one percent of the population. Is it any wonder I have trouble finding like-minded people?

The first time I was ever stung by a bee, I cried to my mother, "I don't understand, Mama. Why? Why did he sting me?" I hadn't done anything to the bee, not that I knew of, and I couldn't comprehend why it would lash out at me.

Human interactions later in life have often left me in much the same state.

Prior to entering seventh grade (my first year of middle school) I was generally pretty confident in my friendships and social status. Sure, I was a little quirky and considered "smart," but I was still part of the popular group, at least as it existed in our little corner of the world. I had my first kiss (and first period) by age eleven; I knew what music was in (Alanis, duh); I wore overalls, sometimes with leggings; I painted my nails with Express polish in shades of purple and teal; and I knew the names of all the actors on Full House, a show I never missed.

But suddenly, unexpectedly, my world started to crack apart around me. Without knowing why, I was abandoned by my closest friends, a number of whom I'd known since preschool. It was a gradual process, with some key events that went straight to my heart -- and manifested themselves on my wrists. This is something else I never, ever talk about, and I suspect even those closest to me now don't know. But here goes: I started cutting. Or dabbling in it, anyway, mostly using straight pins to create (and thereby relieve) some of the incomprehensible, overwhelming pain I was feeling.

My mom (how does she keep popping up here? You're a saint, woman) gave me a copy of Reviving Ophelia, and I knew, at least, that my experience wasn't unique to me. Still, it was hard not to have someone in my immediate environment to connect with. My response was, essentially, to get weirder. I started SAD (Students Against Dissection) and became a vegetarian. I bought my first Ani DiFranco album and discovered Spilling Open, which prompted me to start making my own mixed-media journal pages.

Part of this process, I believe, was actually me discovering my true self: Uninhibited by the social conventions adhered to by my prior group of "friends," I was free to engage with whatever ideas I chose. And I stuck with what resonated (I am still a vegetarian, and I credit Ani with helping me survive my teens. In fact, I posted this song just a few weeks ago).

It took until around my junior year of high school to start feeling OK in my own skin again, at least most of the time. I was unapologetically involved in activities that represented my passions: theatre, speech, art, orchestra, German club, student council. And I was good at them, holding numerous leadership positions, winning multiple awards, and competing in the state speech finals (Prose Reading, in case you were wondering. My rendition of Sarah Vowell's "Shooting Dad" killed it. Pun semi-intended.). By senior year, I had a tight-knit group of friends and my first serious boyfriend (yep, that'd be my now-husband).

This isn't to say there wasn't plenty of tumult in between, including an unfortunate phase my freshman year that involved wearing red plaid pants, but somehow it felt much more normal -- the ups and downs of everyday teen existence, and nothing multiple late-night viewings of John Hughes movies couldn't remedy.

Of course, almost immediately following high school I moved to Germany, prompting a whole new round of Ways-I-Don't-Fit (and never will again -- once you adopt another culture so completely, I don't think it's ever possible to fully return to your own. Hence, perhaps, the reason I have continued to wander all these years since.).

But all that can wait for another day. Maybe. If I'm so inclined. For the time being...

I'm embarrassed to admit:

So much of what I've just written. That I played a game called "Slaves" as a child. That my best friends decided I wasn't worthy of them, and that my response was to start cutting. That I'm worried about what my mother will say, now that my version of all this is out in the open. That, amidst all I have to be grateful for, I still have bouts of agonizing loneliness and despair, and the sense that I'm incapable of having real friends.

I think, what I fear the most here, is that that last bit is true. (Or else the part about my mom ;)) Sometimes I feel like I'm in the adult version of my middle school years, trying once again to figure out who I am and where I stand, while the rug is continually pulled out from underneath me. I hold myself at a distance, convinced that most people secretly hate me or will abandon me one day. Amazing how the past manifests itself in one's current reality. 

And now I want to know (please?): 

What are you embarrassed to admit?

Ever since I started this process -- returning to art, talking about what scares me -- readership of this here blog has almost quadrupled. Granted, I didn't have a whole lot of regular readers to begin with, but I know someone's out there, on a daily basis. So comment, anonymously or not. I'm truly curious about what you have to say.

like a letter from a friend

I came across these words today, and they resonated so strongly that I couldn't help but feel moved to say what I'm about to: 

I want to be an artist.

There, it's out. The dream I shelved for (what I told myself were) practical reasons a few years ago hasn't gone away. In fact, it's like this pulsing, nagging, growing thing inside me that refuses to be ignored.

Have you ever read the book A River of Words? It's one of my favorite children's books, telling the story of William Carlos Williams through simple, imaginative prose and wonderful mixed media illustrations. A few years ago, when the book was up for a Caldecott, I had the opportunity to meet the writer, Jen Bryant, and illustrator, Melissa Sweet, at the American Library Association National Conference. 

Photo by Natalie Ratkovski

Watching Melissa sign my book, I thanked her for her work and told her just how much it meant to me -- and then I started to cry. I couldn't seem to help myself! The pictures looked so much like something I might make, and there was this tiny voice in the back of my head saying it's not too late! even though I felt like I'd largely abandoned my artistic self long ago. And then Melissa started crying and took my hands and was like, Why are we crying? And we laughed and shrugged and moved on.

It was such a strange, dizzy moment. 

I could still cry, thinking about it now. I know exactly why I let that artistic voice get so small, tuned it out for so long. Why my major morphed from Art History and Textile Design to Philosophy to Humanities, to, finally, Education, and it wasn't for "practical reasons." 

When I peel away all the surrounding noise and excuses, I'm left only with this:

Fear.

A little demon nestled in some deep down dark place, one I've been sure to feed.

Now I'd like to give that little fear-demon a giant smack in the face. 

No, I'm not about to quit my day job. (For one thing, I kind of like it, and it's also paying the bills. I just don't necessarily want to keep it indefinitely.) I also think I need more time to....marinate. Yes, I want to be an artist -- but what does that mean? What type of artist? Do I go back to school? If yes, where? How? etc. 

Those questions don't have ready answers just yet, but for the time being, I do have a place to start:

Andy and I are heading over to Abu Dhabi Pottery today, where I'm hoping to sign up for classes. Since what I'm most nervous to try is throwing (using the potter's wheel), I'm thinking that's exactly what I need to do. Especially since it relates to the second item on my list. Which also happens to be where the blog comes in: For my next few posts, I'm going to write about whatever sticks out in mind as something I absolutely shouldn't reveal. Those shameful, embarrassing but truthful stories that I'd rather suppress as soon as they bubble to the surface? Yep, writing about 'em.

And finally, something I've always known I need to do more of, is sketch. I've avoided it in recent years because I've felt so inhibited, like nothing I could put on paper would be good or matter. Even when alone, just me and a pencil and paper, I'm worried about what others will think. So, right-left-kick, I'm gonna sketch like a madwoman.

Here goes nothing. (And everything.) (Or at least something.) (In any case -- onward.)

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Special shout out to Pugly Pixel and Fuzzimo, where I get my free vectors (i.e., the notebook paper you see in the above images, as well as the polaroid frames, masking tape, etc., you've seen in the past). Katrina's tutorials at the Pug are also amazing, which is how my computer-illiterate self was able to create and code my sidebar.