I wake to the sound of chaos: a flock of birds in conflict over the bitter taste of wild grapes. Yesterday, I was ecstatic to discover the fruit growing rampant along the riverbank behind our house. Today, I realize my partner was right—it will take a lot of dirty, back-bending work to tame this undomesticated vine and turn it into something palatable. And yet, this doesn’t seem to discourage either of us from the prospect of trying.
I’ve stopped apologizing for who I am not, and it feels good. I no longer wish for things to be any different than they are. Even when there are challenges, the burden doesn’t feel so heavy, knowing I have the support to tackle most any undertaking I choose.
My desire to be a writer hasn’t waned, either. If anything, it has been magnified. I work, and try to live out my dreams every day, while attempting to be a decent human being. And that should be enough…. But what I can’t do anymore, is partake in that comparative, over-analysis of what others are doing with their livelihoods. I applaud anyone who has made a go at the artistic life. I know it isn’t a walk in the park and yet you forge ahead, each day, knowing that it isn’t some easy, formulaic thing—but a gut-wrenching, ego-smashing pursuit that tests your patience and your soul. That is, in itself, a beautiful thing.
I just want something more out of life than to be labeled. And I think feeling loved and loving myself for who I am, is a start in the right direction. I am learning to embrace all that I can do and all that I strive to do, allowing this worthwhile life to present itself in all its forms. A grandiose idea, sure, but it is one of the few things I actually have control over—welcoming life to the table, and enjoying the company while it lasts.