I’m having one of those “if a tree falls in the woods” kind of moments.
I really won’t go into the “wah, poor me” too much here I promise. My issue is that the idea of being an artist has always been a leaning I’ve not understood was as part of me. I’m 41 years old and I’m JUST starting to see it as embedded in me rather than an article of clothing I put on. I wish that I had had someone pointing this out to me when I was younger. It would have gone so far now, in times of fallow, to help me know deep in myself that I am who I hope to be.
I have a hard time remembering it when I’m not actively playing or writing or singing or painting or whatever it is that I do when I’m in my element. It’s like forgetting I have blue eyes when I’m not actually looking in a mirror. I can’t see them but it doesn’t change the fact that they exist, that they are a part of me, a part which speaks to my identity.
So as I wait….to get into the city, to get a home studio set up, for my musical shaman to finish touring (make plans to see Jars of Clay this summer!!) and for my head to clear from my work with The Wise Woman and DoxaSoma long enough to find my muse again I’m sitting in this pool of doubt.
The water is horribly cold, friends. I’m working toward stepping out into the warm air of affirmation.