Once upon a time I wrote, I painted, I made music… I created beautiful things.
How did I get from there… to here?
Where I’m afraid to pick up my guitar, because I now fumble at a language in which I was once fluent.
I no longer draw or paint, because I don’t have the time. Or so I tell myself.
Where I lived was always an expression of me. From cushions I designed and made. Jewelry stands out of recycled cardboard, fabric and beads. Curtains that everyone would admire, not knowing they’d been recycled from discarded carnival costumes.
Slowly over years, there’s been less creating, and more… functioning.
Picking up. Packing up. Straightening.
Little bits at first.
Overwhelming in the end.
Until it’s all you know, because you’ve forgotten that you were an artist once.
Until one day you’re reminded…
Come back and play with our group. We miss you.
And you smile at those decade old memories.
Until you receive a gift of a photograph, from a friend. One you’d admired but never considered hanging on your wall, because you can’t even remember when last you deliberately decorated. Left a message from your soul in a room.
Until you receive a quill from a friend. Because you are meant to write.
And you go numb.
Because you dare not cry.
Because if you start… You may not be able to stop.
So you save it til you’re alone.
And you realize… I realize… that those tears have watered a little part of my soul that had gone barren with neglect.
But there is no sadness. Because new life comes.
In this life, there are no coincidences.
On my birthday, I thank the friends who have helped me find that path again, with their laughter and kindness and faith. And with the gift of their friendship.