I like to think that I’ve learned how to carry myself with confidence in life, even though I find myself stumbling on pinecones in my driveway while wearing high heels. In the moments when I accidentally knock over a full bin of recycling (yesterday), skin my knees while walking my dog (a few months ago), or slip chasing the soccer ball (every single day, ask my son), I try to remind myself I’m just providing ridiculous entertainment for those around me. And I own this foolishness because, well, I’m confident in my clumsiness.  It’s my gift. Or maybe it’s a sign I ought to slow down a little… No matter what though, I hope that, as I try to keep up appearances, people realize that it’s just that… keeping up appearances.

 

Admit it, we all do it, right?

 

Not saying it’s right, not saying it’s wrong. There’s a certain amount of showmanship that’s acceptable and expected in life. Shakespeare said it best when he wrote,

“All the world’s a stage

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts…”

 

While I aim to be forthcoming about who I am as a person, I’ll actually admit when I’m having  a rough day, I would prefer to be viewed as confident, strong, driven… (Someone has Type A tendencies, huh?)

 

That being said, can I take a moment to admit something? I struggle a lot with a lack confidence. I don’t actually own my confidence, that’s just a part I play. My writing, and calling myself a writer? Have you read any great articles online or books lately and then sat down to pen your own thoughts?! I have. I’m currently reading yet another novel by Edith Wharton, I just finished another incredible book by Vladimir Nabokov, next on my list is more Dostoyevsky plus some current books. (For the record, I still take time here and there to read a selections of stories from Dave Barry, you know, for balance…And stories about boogers.) All that to say, if I spend time thinking about it, thinking about those who have already shared their writing with he world, I will crush myself with defeated thoughts before I ever let my fingers touch the keys on my laptop. I am no Tolstoy.

 

Should we take a moment to discuss art? I struggle with referring to anything I create as art. I understand that my creations are my art, born out of whatever creativeness that resides in me. There are many days when nothing makes me happier than time spent with a blank sheet of paper and a fine-tipped sharpie (Though I often contemplate if my happiness is actually fume induced from the marker…). That being said, I’m no fool. My house is furnished with prints of artwork by those who inspire me. Have you stopped and contemplated the creation of Van Gogh’s painting The Mulberry Tree lately? Or his iris paintings? What about Picasso, Monet or da Vinci? And should we even begin to mention artists that are currently creating? I live in the Pacific Northwest, countless people live here solely to create: paintings, sculptures, music, living art, photography, architecture…The list is endless.

 

And what do I do? I write posts occasionally for this blog. I doodle. And I take pictures, with my iPhone.

 

For the record–are you awake still? Good, because this is an important point I don’t want you to miss–I’m not seeking affirmations in sharing these thoughts.

 

I’m not writing this so that, in return, I hope to receive words to encourage. I think doubt in oneself, to a degree, is healthy.

 

I am sharing this because, if I can publicly share my thoughts, my writings, my photos, my doodles, I think many others in this world can, and should, too. (Yes, I’m talking to you, dear readers.)

 

For me, it’s about stepping outside of my comfort zone.

It’s about proving that I have something to give, perfect or not.

For me it’s being brave enough to know criticism is a possible outcome.

It’s about being human, being connected, being real.

But mostly, in sharing my art, my creations, my life, it’s about one thing…

 

Being vulnerable.

 

What do you have to share with the world today?