Everywhere I turn I see a message to be authentic. To be me. To be vulnerable. Instead, I have been delivering everything from under a veil, a “soft focus” of sorts, that attempts to hide the flaws. I don’t feel like I’ve been truly authentic. So, here goes.
When my emotions ran rampant as an adolescent and young adult, I wrote poetry. It was a raw and cathartic process by which I would make sense of the world around me, and how I found myself existing within it. It was my way of making a home for myself. I used to have sentences of prose pour into my head, and repeat themselves over and over until I found a way to get them down onto paper. Once
in the flesh written in ink, whether on napkins or notebook paper, they would take on a life of their own and practically complete themselves. I lived in the realm created by the act of putting words on a page.
Lately, poetry generally escapes me. Instead, the words that come into my head are like isolated universes. Each one holds so much meaning, and encapsulates a different part of who I have been or where I want to be. But as yet, they can’t seem to reach each other.
I have always felt that when I can’t lay a piece of me down, whether only for my own eyes or for others to see, that I disappear. Now, all these years later, I suspect that there is a part of me that I wanted to vanish. And vanish her I did. What a magician I am, slowly bleaching the ink off the pages, all the while claiming she was leaving me. But really, I did it. I quieted her. I quit her. I quit giving her a voice. I’ve always had a hard time liking me, but I at least used to listen to me.
I want to listen to me again. I want to put pieces of me into the universe. I want to do it because my soul is crying out for me to do so. I want to do it to free her from my trappings, and to show her that all of her states of being have a home in me.
And I feel like in order to have a voice, I need to be true to who and where I am in life. I am a stay at home mom, trying to be a full-time photographer. I have two small children who need me – and whose needs sometimes “get in the way” of doing this job that I love. And this job that I love “gets in the way” of me being as present for them as all the mom guilt in the world makes me feel like I should be. I’m not going to turn this into a post about how blessed I am, because I know that I am. But I don’t feel like I can be authentic without also giving these parts of me a voice.
Go ahead. Shout if you need to.