I should be fixing up the aborted post that somehow went out this morning . . . but I am having a stubborn attack about finishing a piece of art that keeps wrestling with me. We’ve been tussling for weeks now. I don’t know if I like it. I only know we can’t leave each other alone, this piece and I.
And here I am, a menopausal woman writing poems about ovum and hope for fertilization. This is not a literal hope, I assure you. I am doing this for yet another art project that I love fiercely but which I cannot share because there has been some interest expressed in publishing it (as an article). So I feel caught, and restless. I sense changes going on in my psyche, a groping for clarity, and a build up of energy that will launch as soon as a direction is set ~ a direction only I can and must determine.
No, I have not “lost it.” I am simply trying to locate an important needle in a big haystack of seeming “obligations.” (I guess I have lost it.)
I will have to sit with this. Write it out. Ask for dreams and guidance. Pay attention to what is trying to burst forth.
I just went through an experience where I felt I gave some of my power away and I don’t like the sensation of diminishment it proffered. A new resolve to be fully myself, to refuse to measure how I am performing by charts I did not compose, and standards that are outwardly imposed, has been implanted within. The wild child is kicking.
Playing safe is not the way I intend to spend my second half of life. I shall continue to live largely and dream expansively, and run like a cheetah when I sense any limitations being imposed. Or, I’ll simply stand, feet firmly placed, and give the limitations their proper due, which is an absolute and utter lack of consideration.
Oh yes, something is afoot . . . and I want it to catch me.