piece of me

 My therapist asked me today to think about who I would be without this whole piece of me—the writing, creative piece. The part of me I’ve cultivated and invested in for the past five or six years. The part I’ve allowed to finally show.  That part that’s published a dozen or so books and written even more.

I couldn’t even imagine it. And yet I lived that way for a very long time, with this creativity I longed for just simmering under the surface.

Oh, bits of the real me poked out. I wrote a few books and a lot of poems—and painted and did other things. But I didn’t take it “seriously” like I do now. (Seriously in that I allow myself to do it. Not “seriously” because it really is a form of play.) Seriously in that I decided it was a thing I do because it makes me happy and a thing I share because why not?

There are so many bullshit reasons why we tell ourselves what we want doesn’t matter. That it’s not important or we can put it off.

Don’t.