. . . and not be on the go quite so much. Sometimes you run in circles, accomplishing nothing other than wearing holes in your carpet, when in actuality, what you need to do is be quiet . . . and go within. The only way you can heal that fracture is with quiet, rest, and putting your feet up. Hmmm . . . a timely message perhaps? Be good to yourself . . . you are the most important person to you . . . and the world needs your message.
Secondly . . . STOP with the comparisons. STOP!!! LAWD child!!! All of us came here with our own message to share. Our own karma to correct. And our own “mistakes” to make. It’s so easy to get caught up with ’keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak, but do you really want to inherit all of THEIR skeletons as well as your own? Do you really want to BE them? Or do you want to be the wonderful, loving, compassionate, friendly, intelligent, fun, joyful, accepting, talented, beautiful woman that YOU are? What if — just what if — you stop with the comparisons and just look in the mirror to see what YOU have to offer. Maybe, just maybe, you will see what others see in you. That is my prayer for you.
Most importantly . . . we — the world — needs your voice. We need to hear about your journey — your journey from fear and judgment to acceptance and self-love. It’s important. Not only to complete your own healing, but also to let others know that they are not alone.
You have been given courage to be transparent . . . and WHOA, BABY . . . this is gonna be transparent. You have things to share with others that you have done in your search for self-love that are less than pretty. In fact, some of it is downright U.G.L.Y. You, by having the courage to share your voice, will allow others to not be so harsh on themselves. Or maybe, you are just writing it to heal yourself. Either way, it helps heal the world, because the more of us that love ourselves unconditionally, the more the world is healed.
You can do this, Paula. One chapter at a time. Until it’s finished. Just like eating an elephant. One bite at a time. Until you don’t want to even think about eating elephant ever again . . . HA!
You are one hell of a woman . . . with courage and tenacity. I honor you for choosing this path. I honor you for doing it with humility.
Love,
Me.
Okay, so it didn’t kill me to write this. My ankle actually feels better because I have been off of it for about an hour. I have a hefty amount written. And I no longer feel the need to compare myself to anyone else . . . because I’m not anyone else. I’m just me. Me. I’m not her. I’m me.
For the first time in a long time, THAT feels good. I’m me . . . flaws, learning experiences, and all. I’m me — quirky, funky and artistic. I’m me, a tad bigger than I “should” be, but accepting of where I am. I’m me, sometimes messy as hell and sometimes neat as a pin. I’m me — one who loves to laugh and help my friends when they need it.
I don’t suck afterall.
We talked after I wrote this. She made more suggestions. Good ones. Actually, GREAT ones. She told me that my voice matters. She knows . . . it’s her business. One thing led to another . . . and a book about transparency and my journey to self-love morphed into My Lyrical Journey — How I Painted my Heart Wide Open.
And then . . . she said magic words. “And if your book was written to artists . . . to inspire artists and other people who have their gifts hidden inside? How would that be?”
I stopped dead. I got a tingle . . . yes . . . the kind when you know that “this is right” down to your very core. For me, it makes . . . well . . . it makes my nipples hard… LOL . . . sorry . . . TMI . . . I know. But, that is how I KNOW.
I realized that I had a passion about following MY passion. Giggle. I believe that all people should follow their passion in one way or another — even if it’s part time. It doesn’t matter if it’s writing, painting, music, sculpting, numbers, politics, being a janitor or working at McDonalds. Whatever it is. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you KNOW is the “why” that you are here.
We need passion. We’ve become a society of drones . . . and “if I only had’s.” We’ve been taught — at least some of us have — that we need to “work” for a living. Early to bed . . . early to rise . . . etc., etc. Well, I’m calling that bullshit.
I’ve never been happier since I made the decision to be a professional artist. It makes my soul happy. And a happy soul makes for a happy Paula. Happiness ripples. And the ripples ripple . . . and then there are more ripples and before you know it everyone is splashing around in the pool and laughing and having fun, and no one notices color, religion, political ties, etc., etc. We are just all having fun. Together. Because we are all happy.
Yes, I sound like a Dorothy from Kansas (because I am) or a Pollyanna. I realize that. I also realize that it’s not that simple.
Or is it?
Intro
Yeah . . . this book has got to have one . . . .
I started painting at the ripe old age of 45 at the urging of a friend who was an artist . . . after a plaster ceiling fell on my head while I was doing what I loved at the time — remodeling houses. She insisted that I come to her studio/gallery and take a painting lesson.
“Bring all of your stuff,” she said.
“What stuff?” I said to myself. So, I did what every new, budding artist does. I stole my son’s art kit and took off for my very first lesson.
The first thing she told me to do was to lay out my paints.
“HUH?”
“You’ve never painted before?!” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Nope. Never. Ever. Except for walls.” It was fun…really fun. I couldn’t get enough. I took lessons from many artists that I admired.
I painted animals. I painted landscapes. I painted. I covered miles and miles of canvas. I got an itch to paint abstracts. I didn’t know anything about them. I didn’t know to proceed . . . how to paint them . . . or why I was even drawn to painting abstractly. I figured they would be easy. After all, if an elephant or a dog or whatever can paint them . . . surely I could? Couldn’t I? Or could I? Turns out, I could. I studied. A lot. I took workshops.
And, along the way, I started learning something about myself. I started seeing myself for who I am. I paint intuitively with my hands…with sponges, with crayons, with stencils; with charcoal and alcohol. (Alcohol for the painting; not for me . . . okay, sometimes for me . . . one for the painting; one for me!) I paint after I’ve meditated and gotten in touch with my inner muse. I paint after I have burned sage, listened to music, played on the computer until I can’t stand NOT to paint any more.
I’ve worked with some of the best mind-set trainers and business coaches that I have met. I’ve invested in me. I’ve shed a lot of crap inside that I don’t need and no longer serves me. And as a result, I’ve fallen in love with my creative soul . . . my process and the value that I bring to this beautiful world. My heart is open. So deep. So wide.
I started blogging. I started telling my story. When I was talking with my mentor about the book idea being My Lyrical Journey — How I Painted My Heart Wide Open, I realized that it was pretty much already written. I’d been writing semi-regularly, if you can call writing one week and then not for a few months semi-regular . . . hey . . . that’s the truth. It seemed and seems natural to use my blogs. Each one tells a different story, and even though they might not seem to be cohesive as to how painting opened my heart wide open, they are. Because together they are my story. They reveal how I got to where I am now.
I’ve opened my heart and become transparent in many of these little stories — about my fears, dreams and desires; about disappointments, loss, and hopes. I’ve found courage, strength, love and compassion in places I never knew it would come from. And, as a result . . . I have a story. I have a story of courage, healing and love. It proves that even a small town, conservative, etc., etc. woman can leave a marriage to a wonderful man — because she knew she had/has something to share — and blossom.