I haven’t written lately.
I must confess that I have had something of a writer’s block.
Life changes and trying to keep my footing have taken all of my energy.
There is this constant dance to modern life.
How much do I share of myself, my kids, my life?
With all the upheaval in my life, I keep asking myself why? Why do I feel compelled to share things online? Why do I do any of the things that I do?
Part of this existential crisis is because my children are suddenly school aged and I’m facing the fact that I no longer have babies.
Part of it is that the job for the non-profit I have committed myself to for four years is at an end.
Part of it is that I need to start making some money and fast if I want my life to retain any semblance of what it has been.
The whole of it though is that it is very easy to become a caricature. I think that we often define ourselves by the checkboxes we can tick off about our selves.
I could so easily just be that crafty mommy blogger. I am so much more, as are all of the other women classified as such. I could just as easily be the funny fat girl that is into fashion, the neurotic Jewish mother, the feminist with no sense of humor at all. I fall into all of these categories and then some.
Like trying to listen to your own voice when you speak, trying to categorize yourself will lead to stuttering and frustration. There are things I am wanting to share, but often feel out-of-place. I DO love crafty crafting. I also have a potty mouth and a sarcastic wit. I love playing with my kids and I love going out with my ladies and talking about how much we would have to charge for hand jobs to make it a viable business.
I’m looking to live an authentic life. I long to treat others with compassion and kindness. I do however have a rich and deep vein of snarkiness to my core, and that makes it so hard to balance it.
Watching television with my five-year-old daughter she points out that someone is hideously strange looking. I agree, but what do I tell her? Do I laugh with her or correct her or both? That’s where I am coming from. I want to talk shit with a flower in my muzzle. I want to be that crafty loving positive pleasant bitch that I am.
The thing is, no one is limiting me but me. It’s a choice that I have made, to sensor myself, to share only parts. I can say that it is motivated by fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear you won’t like me, fear that you will. It isn’t logical and it doesn’t make sense, but it really doesn’t need to.
I have so much shit to work out, and it looks like this is the best place to do it, sooooooo… there you go.