I always wanted to write.  I couldn’t.  There was a banging in my head as if there was a wall or a membrane around my desire.  I couldn’t break through it.  and I just knew I couldn’t be a writer.  That was for other people.  I just seemed to daze over, stand back and observe through the haze of that daze, that there were things I wanted to do.  But they seemed to be for other people. My zest for experience  was on the back burner as I vacillated between being kind of depressed and dull, passive and weepy, or acting out, taking over a room, being entertaining, dancing, singing.  I had lots of friends til my 30’s when life’s various machetes and some of my trance was hacked away by experiences like loss, followed by  boomerangs of rage, mistrust, fear, but they were vital feelings.  They were my feelings. All of  them sent me back into my haze purposefully to parse it for something.  But for what?  Wisdom?  Possibiiliy?   Actually, for me, the real me.  A me that now loves to write, writes for release not for that challenging back board in my head, and writes to weave self with inner peace or to relinquish the urgencies of how and who to become. You know the externally designed ones.

A me that discovered a metaphorical or energetic membrane -like series of containers that defined me and many others as I banged into them, my limitations of self expression.  It seemed that there was no way out  There is.  We just need to break out. 

I am so grateful for the – as I call them – machetes of life’s experiences.  The disappointments, frustrations, failures, losses of people I loved, reforming what love truly is, and other gifts I discovered in my own tool box of potentials for creativity that were slumming inside my trances.