Inspired by moments of self-doubt and lack of momentum, I found myself looking at who I really am, to me.
JOURNAL EXERCISE: Who am I really?
Write without hesitation. What happens? Who are you?
Peering into my childhood summerhouse for the first time in 25 years. Photo by Julian Bowers. Ulriksdal, Mässvik, Sweden, July 2009.
I am many.
I am the 9 year old too frightened to use the washroom at school and peeing my pants when I sneeze.
I am the mom at home waiting for my kids, fresh sheets on their beds, listening for the sounds of their keys in the door, a fridge full of food, and ears that will listen gleefully, without judgement, forever.
I am the eccentric old lady in 8 layers of skirts tending my flowers in the garden out front of my little shed house, with a cat on my shoulder and 20 more in my house and my loom creates endless rag rugs and the coffee is always on.
I am the distracted monk in the scriptorium, rubbing my eyes by candle light, my hands flecked with ink stains, my skin ever itchy from the wool cloak, lost in imagery of reds and blues and golds.
I am the pubescent dancer in rose pink, alone on the stage, performing for no one but the ghosts of Balanchine and Stravinsky.
I am the lowly librarian, sorting through card catalogues and aligning the musty books in the shelves just so, pushing my glasses with a dart and and anxious glance.
I am the lustful twenty one year old, fearlessly grinding to the Kinks.
I am the recluse.
I am the leader.
I am the activist.
I am the restrained.
I am the New Yorker.
I am the timid.
I am the middle finger upping, Doc martens covered in shit wearing, obliterating chins that get in my way kicking, my life aggressively behind me dragging, yelling:
Come on! Get up, you fuck!
There is no time to delay for the the time is now.
Your life is here.
TRUST IT. TAKE IT.