What's there to be scared of?

In a  deliciously enticing conversation with a friend, I grieved over my inhibition to write.  How I am afraid of failing.  How not writing, not creating is safer than failing.  He asked, "What are you scared of?  Two little letters - 'n' and 'o'?"

The answer is yes.  I am the guilty party.  I tell myself no assuming that others will tell me no, and what that no depicts varies...  Is [it] good?  Am I talented?  Am I worthy?  Do I have what it takes?  Will anyone care?  The list goes on, but the one thing that doesn't change is that I answer my own questions, and not nicely.

My friend joked and mentioned the Yes Man movie and how instead, I should write about the no's.
He's right.  I have to right about the No before I can teach myself Yes.  I have to face my fear.  I have to own it.  Sit in it.  Remind myself that No can actually be good sometimes.

So not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but I plan to face my No's.

No becomes a Yes.

I Am From...

I am from clothespins, Tide, and hot summer breezes.

I am from the big curve at the 11 mile mark and the circle driveway I used to park in.

I am from dreaded poison ivy and pesky mosquitoes,

And eagerly anticipated dogwood trees.

I am from Turkey at Thanksgiving and Pizza at Christmas,

From the expected and the unexpected.

I am from freckled cheeks and arms, almond-shaped brown eyes,  

And pale skin that burns.

I am from kamistybeth

And Elmores and Ballews.

I am from hard - sometimes sweet - martyrdom

And smiles that sometimes hide.

I am from I love you and Don’t be sassy

And This too shall pass...

I am from AG, fire and brimstone, and revivals that didn’t really mean anything.

I am from a city I don’t remember and a city I abscond, and a city with new roots.

I am from home-grown corn, fried green tomatoes,

And the summer Dad said Merry Christmas in July with presents of garden hoes.

I am from the picture wall of baby photos, school portraits, and unknown faces from long before,

And from the top shelf in the walk-in closet with all its secrets:

Untouched family albums, clipped-out newspapers, and old half-forgotten letters.

I am from hurts and hugs and half-truths and secrets -

Each being discovered one at a time,

Like finding southern country treasure,

Or an un-seen bee,

Hovering over a glass of sweet iced tea.

Morning Pages

It is Easter - early afternoon.  I am sitting outside and it is starting to rain: beautiful, big, fat rain drops, the kind you can hear falling.  Norma was going to do an Easter egg hunt but now it will have to wait.  Sitting out here, I can't help but hope all the laughing and happy screaming children go inside.  I would love to sit out here with just the rain for company.  It is utterly peaceful.  It is starting to rain in earnest now and with it a little thunder and a cool misty breeze.  The black car just drove away while the red and white stay, a couple of passengers not wanting to face the rain.  Over there is a mom and baby, perhaps as enthralled as I am, looking out over their balcony.  The water is pooling in the courtyard and I am happy to see the rose bushes blooming again.  I wondered about them just yesterday.  Oh look!  The happiest surprise of all!  My neighbor is blowing bubbles into the rain.  I wish I had a camera for this moment has made me happy.  The thunder is closer and I see Misha looking out from the boy's room.  I think she likes this spot because she can watch the pigeons, but today there are no pigeons.  The quiet I desired has finally come, along with more rain-spray.  I don't mind getting wet.  I think I may have dreamed this.  The neighbors have all gone back in and still the courtyard floods.  A blue truck replaced the black, the white car decided to leave, but the red car remains - much like me.  I look around again and this time I see a neighbor leaning over the edge with a potted plant, choosing to let the original waters nourish this house plant of theirs.  Beautiful and original.  I am alone again.  The skies have admittedly turned greyer, but I do not mind.  It is still bright day, not to be confused for darker times.  The hour, the rain, the bushes blooming below - these all remind me it is spring.  It comes back to Easter day, circular indeed.  This time the rain and breeze are pushing me in, too wet to stay, but still I hesitate.  It is lovely and I do not want to go.  But with the rain comes boredom and little boys who want to play.  Good day, Easter, good day!

Questions

I asked him questions about God

Questions that could not be answered

My questions required faith

Though I seemed to have none

I wanted to know why the world was hurt

Why I was hurt

I told him I didn’t understand

I told him I didn’t like his parables

I even said I wish we were puppets

And it is true – I do

But there was no fire

And no rain

And there were no answers

Creative Lethargy

So lately it seems that I keep struggling with everything.  I have a huge certification test coming up in 4 weeks that I have known about for months and I have not studied.  At all.  I have 2 or 3 books sitting by my bed that I have been meaning to either read or finish.  Yep--they are still sitting there, and this coming from the girl who loves to read.  Other things, too, like wanting to make really delicious meals for my family.  I know how, want to, but when it gets down to dinner time, what happens?  Mac and cheese.  Or sandwiches.  I know what depression is, I know what it feels like--I have battled it for what seems like my entire adult life, but this is different. 
This feels like lethargy--creative lethargy.  Once again I put easy before trying new things (or old, for that matter!) and tried-and-true before any out of the box ideas.  I am so completely inhibited.  Creatively constipated.  Nice image, huh?  C told me I should take some art classes.  We were discussing my absolute love/obsession with tattoos and he told me I should become a tattoo artist.  I immediately laughed and said, 'I can't draw!  I can't even draw a straight line with a ruler!"  His response was that I could learn.  Take a class here or there...  and you want to know what happened?  For half a second, I actually dreamed.  I actually imagined what taking a class would look like and then I compared myself to every other art student who has been drawing for a lifetime and I threw it away.  I threw that image away.  But do you see it?  Do you see it still lingering? 
I don't know what happened to me.  I feel now like I always do.  But I am saying it out loud.  I feel lost.  Sometimes I don't know why and even the times I think I know, I pretty much go running away.  It is time to stop running.  Ok, so I may never learn to draw straight lines without a ruler and therefore never become Kat Von D, but I can pick up a pen.  Or type a few lines.  I will purposefully set out to fail so that in doing so, I can actually succeed.

A Touch of Melancholy

My desire speaks to me

But at a distance, like the moon

I try to find out about myself

From everyone but myself

I feel the spaces are dark, unknown

I think I am scared, scared to want

Scared more, still, to succeed

I look for reassurance 

Soft and sweet-scented like the wind

One day I will know

One day I will see

But tonight, tonight is for dreaming

How do I start?

Most days I do not know what to write or what to say.  My husband says that I am scared to look in my heart.  That it is like peeking under a rock and then running away.  I think I agree with him.  I am afraid, afraid that if I look, nothing will be there.  I have always said there are two kinds of people in the world: those who create art and those who appreciate art.  I have always called myself the latter but it is the artist I wish to be.  They say in order to create you must first be willing to do so poorly.  I feel like I can’t do that.  Or won’t.  I want to create.  I think creating is beautiful.  Therefore whatever it is I might create should be perfect.  But this is all wrong.  I have to learn to wander and linger inside my soul.  I have to listen fiercely to the tiniest of whispers inside myself.  I need to stop relying on feelings—as in the need to FEEL creative before picking up a pen.  I need to immerse myself. I need to try and try and try again.  I read this recently: When do you make the time? They say, and it’s impossible not to. Art is oxygen is faith is sanctuary. This is how I want to be with my writing.  I want to have a voice.  I choose to exercise this voice.  I have to because there is no other way.