on splitting things
down the middle
At times these days, I feel a little bit like I have a split personality. One day I am mrs. mediocrity, the next day I am the blue muse. We are both the same, yet, somehow, we are different.
When I jumped/fell into the land of blog, my plan was to start a blog that would focus on art, my jewelry business, design, etc. And that would be the blue muse. But since I had no clue what I was doing, I decided to first start mrs. mediocrity as a way to figure this whole thing out, my “guinea pig” blog if you will. I also had a feeling I might want a place where I could “ramble” about any topic I felt like. (And obviously, I needed that outlet…)
So I flip and flop between my two voices, both mine, both a little bit someone else’s. Both me, both her. Which her, which day, when do they merge, when do they separate, when do they become their own person?
Do you see what I mean?
No wonder I’m confused…
But I’m not, really. It’s like the difference between your work personality and your home personality. Slightly different, always. How many personalities do we have? How many roles do we play? I am graphic artist, jewelry artist, writer, digital artist, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, female, runner, reader, gardener, knitter, housekeeper, decorator. Not necessarily in that order.
I am all these things. I am me.
Multi-faceted, insanely busy and always looking for more, me.
But there’s also this: I had no clue when I entered this world how many wonderful people I would meet. The friendships I would form. The awe and admiration I would feel for the multitude of talent I would discover. The sense of community, support, and caring. The encouragement. The connection. The camaraderie.
The expansion of my teeny tiny world, the expansion of me.
I also had no clue how much I would fall in love with writing again, and photography. How this would cause me to circle back to my teenage years, when I wanted to be a poet, or a photographer, and wonder why I chose the paths I did. Not that I regret most of them. But the writing and photography part, I do, a little bit. It is weird to come face to face with my teenage self again at age 47. And to recognize that same zit, still on my chin.
Or maybe that’s perfectly normal.
Either way, I am here, home. Inside my 47-year-old body home. Inside my head home. Inside my heart home.
I wonder where I was for all those years?
Yes, I am me.
The same me I was at thirteen.
A vastly different me at 47.
And in so many ways…
I am just like you.
Thank you, for that.
A sincere thank you to everyone who reads and listens and comments and supports. From my heart.