So today...it crept in. That tiny speck. Not sure if it was a sound or a thought or a vision. But it had a presence of sorts.
A want. A dream. A hope. Scary to even say or think it out loud.

I want more.

Since as long as I can remember, I have walked around the house of Shari closing doors. Some doors that should have been shut, in my eyes- doors that seemed too conventional or not interesting and didn't represent who I am/was. Yet I closed other doors as well-doors that seemed too scary, too daring, too real. Doors that meant stepping into rooms that could have changed the route I was autopiloting on or perhaps even a door out...from the whole game. Ohhh a door out. Sounds heavenly. Yet all this time an inch to the left or right was not available because I made choices a long time ago and I have a responsibility to stand by them and live my life a certain way because of those choices. Can anyone else feel them choking me????

So these past few years with the momentum of a freight train, I cranked open lots of creaky doors. Cleared away tons of garbage. Carted away old suits worn by alter egos, shoes I walked other lives in, hats I wore in lots of plays.

Now the naked Empress stands.....and she wants more.

I want to be happy. I want to feel fulfilled. I want to feel proud. I want to feel love. I want to feel alive. Does that all really exist? Not just in the movies? I actually think I'd like to die trying to find out.

And that tiny speck had me crying buckets. Because to me, wanting and dreaming is scarier than not wanting or feeling anything. Now I've got to get up and go- to fall and fail and get up again. And maybe all my momentum is gone.....or maybe I'm too afraid of bothering. I didn't want to want anything. But this isn't living either. Where's the proverbial cover to pull over my head? Anyone? Please?

I have learned alot in my life by following rules and playing a role quite well what it is I do not want. I have yet learned in life or from life rather...what I do want. Or honestly, what life wants from me or for me.

So Life- whatcha got for little old me? And what should I wear to my ball?
Can it have polka dots? Please?

Mmmmm......welcome back. Been a bumpy patch. Details don't matter- I won't add more chapters to the book. It's time to start clearing the bookshelf. More about that later.

The past 6 months. Lessons. Pain. Nose against the window. Sharpness of reality. The box closing in tighter and tighter. Alot of fear. The whys, hows, wheres and whens fell away and I was left with OUCH. And I cannot seem to shake that ouchiness. Too pokey. Too deep. So tools I didn't want to turn to became the only choice I could see- which seemed like another failure because I couldn't beat the darkness.
Each time I muster up enough momentum to try to scale my perceived wall, I end up in my puddle again.

Today...a bit of a ray. A different view. An alternate perspective that I hope to use as a key.
Picture, if you will, an old library. The sort you'd see in a stately British estate. Wood bookshelves, carved woodwork, rows of books with ornate bindings. Dark colors- stuffy and boring, if you ask me.
At a closer glance, each book has a title.
Each title is one of my stories. By stories I don't mean a tale. By story I mean a memory line. An identity, a 'hat', a pair of glasses I wear or have wore at different points in my life that defined me.
See, for me....there is no ME. I'm just which book I pick that day. Am I the little girl who couldn't open her apple juice can, or am I the bubbly cheerleader. Am I the victim Mommy or the frustrated artist....the PTO mom or the girl who loves to dance on tables. So many books, so many stories whose chapters keep growing for the mere fact that survival has meant the morning must begin with choosing a book.
The books don't fit, the titles don't work, but if I don't pick one in the morning, I am invisible.

But today. Today, one of my special angels, D, ( because she would kill me for using her name :), showed me something interesting. The books feel like leashes to me. But the books are just that...paper made from bark. Bark that disintegrates. So each book comes off the shelf and one by one, the pages fray, the words fade, the binding split and the books slowly melt away....leaving empty spots on a bookshelf.
But wait.....what's this??
If you push on that heavy, wood stuffy bookcase- the bookcase wall opens and spins!!
And behind----is my lost imagination. My world of whimsy I locked away so long ago. The little girl's world where all was available and each day held endless possiblity. Yesterday's disappointments or sadness was just that...yesterdays. No stories built upon them. There is always today and now. And there is space and air. So which way do I choose to turn today? What will I try? What can I be? Each moment doesn't have to be built on another...they are just free standing because they come from an "I".
I see colors and polka dots. I see Alice in Wonderland, Willy Wonka, Mackenzie Childs- patterns, shapes, sizes, textures.
And now I finally understand where my inspiration for my work comes from...even where it takes me days to eek out one piece from the depth of my darkness.

Pretty cool, eh?