My leaps of faith are taken with a running start. Surviving is not my homeostasis, my soul begs to be fed. It can only be ignored for so long, before an internal storm begins to brew.
It’s a powerful acceptance, to say that I am an artist. To say and accept that, without fearing that someone will judge the proclamation. To decide that my opinion on the matter, is more important than someone external to me.
But what holds more weight, than simply to acknowledge that mine is a creative soul, is to sit in the truth that suffering for that creativity is not required. I come by fanciful thinking honestly. When I was small, I devoured books and created worlds of my own. What I would be, what I could be, what beauty I could mold with the slanted, loopy cursive that flowed from my right hand. I filled journal after journal, page after page. It fell out of me, joyously. Each story, an extension of my soul having traveled down my arm and out of my fingers onto paper.
It is natural to me. It doesn’t have to be born of pain to be authentic. My joy is just as beautiful.
This is a peaceful transition, this flow from chaos to grace. This embodiment of the organic nature of who I am, cell-deep. Fingerprints of my mother and father. Influences of my sister, my brother, my husband, those friends who love the me I have always tried to hide.
When we hide, we show our secrets in technicolor.
I would rather my fully actualized self to be mesmerizingly neon. I would rather bask in the overwhelming glow of those who are also awash in their own, amazing color.
Being well and truly soul-fed.
So many changes I’ve set in motion. Light years large, and atom-sized. I decided. I acted. I controlled the direction and now I get to travel the road, in the way that I have mapped it. Where the things my hands create, reflect the beating thing beneath my ribs.
Reconciling me. A wonderment, a celebration of all of my phases and spells.
And I draw in, what seems like my first deep breath, as me.