Fear Schmear!

It’s funny.  My mom just commented on my blog and I felt, almost, resentful at first.  Disgusted. Embarrassed.  Abused.  “Who is she to read my innermost thoughts and comment on them?” I questioned.  “Well, young lady,” I had to say to myself, “you did put them on the Internet.”

Yes, yes I did.

Talk about fearlessness.

But, her comment, the glimpse of my own work through my mother’s eyes, made me go back and read (yet, again) what I had written.

“Lies!”  I shrieked.  “It’s all lies!”

Only after my husband and son came running into the room to find me huddled on the floor trying to choke myself with a mouthful of blue feather boa, did I realize that I’d gone too far.  It was not lies that I was telling.  Not lies exactly.

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Turn On, Tune In, Let Go

I am sitting in the “reading room” typing away.  Silas is standing in the sliver of light that is stretching from this room into the hallway.  He is standing at his easel painting in a Beatnikish turtleneck and a painter’s apron.  He is painting his first portrait.  He is painting a vampire.  Jazz is on the radio.

With my therapist, I’ve been talking about my core sense of self.  Who she is and what provokes her.  About what stirs up the superhuman, lets the divine shine through.  This core sense of self often seems buried, underneath scars, underneath layers of emotional fat.  Still, as I sit here typing, as my son is creating art in that sliver of light, as the Pandora is on Quickmix and all the right songs are playing, I feel her, that core sense.

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