I hem and haw some. About sharing just how much of my life here on the journal section of my apparel design business. But then I realize that the most touching blog I read -the one I find a bit of peace, a bit of self, a bit of raw and honest vulnerability & wisdom in is by another fashion designer. And I like to think I know her just enough to say, fashion – or apparel design is the outlet, being an artist and pondering and aching over living is the muse -for us both.
So I’m on a walkabout. That’s what G calls it. I think. Maybe it’s something all together different now.
I never thought I’d look up at the life I toiled for, the crisp map and plan. The things. So many things. Things I have acquired and don’t know how to give away. I looked up and found that I am not here. I can not hear me. I can not see me. And I am not sure. Of myself. In a life that I have built on the conviction of certainty. A life built taking care of others as my central anchor has left me lopsided. Loud. And fractured.
And I have the gift of grace in my wife and my friends. Hopefully in my family. But no, it won’t be so with everyone. This is about the grace I’m giving myself.
Already I’ve become so acutely aware of how much I dream and pine and purchase to escape the work of me. Or the work of living present and in silent revelry of living. I don’t really give a shit if you’ve found the perfect Ikat rug. I don’t really care if this shade of lilac is the perfect polish for nails. Heartbreak does that. It strips me down to reveal such simple gifts. The ability to go for a walk breathing in fresh air. Re-learning how to dance. Waking up with the sun. Having ideas for how to do things. Doing it wrong. Finding out there isn’t a wrong. Quieting the dreaming. For the first time. And finding myself in the softer empty places. I am heartbroken for myself. I long since forgave the folks that had a hand in bringing me to this point. I am learning. I am learning to forgive myself.
I’m alone. With few distractions. A yoga mat, a lot of hard books, and a journal. I’ve already learned that my most beat up old ass cowgirl boots are integral. And my friend Mary Anne’s piano recordings are some of the most helpful pieces of music I’ve ever heard.
As are these words:
There is no normal life Wyatt, there’s just life. -cowboy quoted movie item said on a weekly basis by my daddy.
So I’m here.