You may want to live a colorful life. I know I do.
But I always feel opposed by some monochromatic establishment — like the one I’ve spent years building inside. Who knows where this system of fear and judgment comes from. I have many theories.
I’ve kept a journal since I was 6 years old, when I asked my mother for one because I had “things to say.” What those things were, I can only imagine now. If that first journal was anything like the ones that followed, I’d say it was smeared with whines of self-pity displaced by jangly optimism, and back again. I like adjectives.
I’ve managed to keep more than 25 journals through all my escapades, but many have been lost (remember the floppy disk?). I have been, too.
As a late-30-something single mother, I’ve found myself wondering if crying before bed every night is the norm, and if it’s normal to love someone so much that you would lay down your life for her. It’s a weird dynamic.
As a lifelong academic who has taught a variety of literature, women’s studies, and writing courses, and written plenty of peer-reviewed articles and books, I’ve sat more than once at a crossroads about how to move forward with authenticity.
As a yogini, honestly, I’ve been invited to question all of my previous personas and ideals. Patience and self-love and compassion are against my younger self, who was one of the most aggressive, body-building, bulimic, panicked, selfish, ambitious vixens you’ve ever seen (and folks, that was the good stuff).
Now a meditative, peace-loving mother and writer of fiction, I have no idea where my place is in this world because I realize what I didn’t before: I actually have no idea what human nature is, what a human being is, what the world is.
The good news, is that I know how to cook. And I can make sense of the world, dammit, through this medium.
So, I’ll take any timbre to help me find my way. As long as it lights up life.
Nice to meet you.