Shedding the old me

Lately I’ve been wallowing in a truck-full of whodunits (especially those in Kerry Greenwood’s two series). In between I’ve wandered through a herd of non-fictions about other people living their lives, good and not so good.

Reading has always been my preferred method of escapism. Whenever I wake up to the fact that I’m reading till my eyes feel like they are shooting blood, I know I need to look inside the book of me—just for a bit.

And that’s where I’ve been recently.

I learned I’ve been escaping from my life again. Mostly because as Mom’s health and life declines my world grows tighter. And I find I’m resenting the things that don’t fill me with passion. Too often I begin one long-loved craft or another only to realize I’m rushing through it; impatient to be finished.

So — what is the point?

The point is admitting I’ve changed. I no longer want to continue doing what I’ve done for so many years. The very tightness I’m finding so strangling is teaching me about waste. I’m finished with time-wasters. They are going, going. What’s left won’t be much, but it will be important.

It’s been uncomfortable — this emptying of who I figured I was. But, if I’m going to be honest, the hardest part was owning up to how much money I’ve been wasting over hunting for something to distract me. It’s kept me hanging onto way too much and way too long. There there’s admitting to the cost of mentally hanging onto the stuff. After the pain of disconnection came the joy.  As box after box, after box of things left, I found room to breathe. I found relief. And I know for sure what’s important now.

Writing and drawing.

I’m not willing to give them up. Everything else is history.

Even if I never grow to excellence within those fields I will be excellent doing them.

And all it took was shining a light over the dark spots. Huh. Who knew?

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