Journey to Authenticity

Wreck This Journal, Weeks Five and Six

 I feel like I'm FINALLY getting this...it's not the wreckage, it's the letting go. It's freeing myself up to open myself up, to be messy, to do it wrong.

I got caught up in a painting project (nothing ecstatically fun--just painting a room) last weekend, and I never got around to posting. I did, though, bring the journal along for the ride, leaving it in the middle of the floor. Oddly, not one drop of paint fell on it, and I was compelled to flick the brush at it.

Other than that bit of forcing, it was a glorious two weeks of free flowing wreckage. I ripped with abandon.

 

I drew lines.

 

I began my sticker collection.

 

I found the perfect word.

 

I handed over the journal to Nathan and two of his little friends and they had their way with it.

 

I did the preliminaries for one of the projects:

 

 

It's now just waiting for me to get around to doing the laundry.

 

And the most daring thing of all?

I showered with it.

 

It's hard to tell from this pic, but it really did get wet. Admittedly, I put it toward the back of the shower to begin with, but I soon forced myself to move it closer to the front, and by the end, I was shampooing my hair over it.

I've been keeping the journal close to home, but now I know I'm ready to push my boundaries even more--I'm going to stop being so shy about it.

Look out world, the two of us are going adventuring.

 

 

 

 

Wreck this Journal, Week Four

It was still feeling a bit awkward, timid even, so I cracked the spine and hurled it across the room.

Not bad.

Then I smeared some of my precious Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab "Arcana" perfume over a page.

See how the smears have turned the page translucent. Yummy. (Yes, Laura, this is aimed at you.)

The next two were rather mundane:

 

 

Yawn. 

I decided to go to one of the really scary ones:

 

No, there aren't pictures of the flames--wisely, I decided to concentrate on experiencing the moment, rather than capturing the moment on film. It quickly got out of control. (Peter Gabriel is sooo right--you can blow out a candle, but you can't blow out a fire.)

 

As you can see here, I had to stick it under the faucet, and even then, it flared up again and had to be doused one more time.

What did I learn this week? That I'm still tense and uncertain, fearful of doing it "wrong." It's supposed to be fun (and is, when I do it), but I overthink it, making it into such a big deal that it's hard to get started.

What else did I learn this week? That this is actually a pattern with me, with my creativity. I want to be playfully creative every day, but instead, I put it off and end up doing a lot in one big burst. The burst is fun, but the agonizing in the days before really isn't.

Unnecessary drama.

So I'm pledging to do it differently this upcoming week. I will keep it loose, do a little bit everyday. I will, for a change, enjoy the ride on the river, and stop thinking about my final destination.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wreck This Journal, Week Three

I take a deep breath.

I've been focused on Nathan's kindergarten year ending and not on the journal. 

And that's okay.

Mark has the day off and so we were both there to see Nathan get off the bus for one last time. Then, realizing I was about to explode with tiredness (yes, that's possible), I announced I was taking a nap. I picked up my journal, went to the bedroom, turned on the window fan, and snuggled into bed with it.

We snoozed together. I may have drooled a little on it.

I got up, made coffee, savored the taste. Went back to the bedroom for my journal and randomly opened it as I walked to the kitchen. The page invited me to get coffee on it. I contemplated sticking my finger in the cup and dribbling just a little, but then laughed at myself. That's not the point.

 

I held it over the sink and poured.

Isn't it delightful how you can begin to see the page beneath it? I turned it over and it said to poke holes in it.

 

I obliged.

I especially like how some of the holes look like they're crying.

I gratuitously poked a few more holes.

I'm starting to really get into this...

 

 

"This is a Test" or "Karen Has a New Toy"

As I was checking out everyone else's Wreck This Journal  response last week, I started getting excited by the many explorations using video. Very excited.

So I broke down and bought an easy-to-use, easy-to-share Flip camcorder. (Surprise, Mark!) I'm not sure when I'll be brave enough to start sharing myself in this way, but Nathan has stepped up to the plate and volunteered to be my test model. Here he is reading his own creation--his version of a Mo Willems "Pigeon" book:

Five Things That Are Really Making Me Happy Today

  

The orange lilies are in bloom.

 

My fabulous watermelon colored Flax pants. (The purple toenails are a bonus.)

 

Refreshing home-brewed tea (a delightful mix of black and herbal tropical fruit).

 

New craft supplies.

 

My comforting, inspiring Writing Angel (a hand-crafted birthday gift from beloved Kara).

Wreck This Journal, Week One

Well, actually it's week two, but I'm a bit behind (which often seems to be the case). But though I'm naming this entry Week One, I think I'll skip to Week Three next week. Much less confusing that way.

Take a breath, Karen, and explain.

The Other Laura has joined a group of creative types and begun a summer adventure. Unable to bear being left out, I've decided to play along too--and hopefully YOU will, as well. It's quite easy--buy a copy of Wreck This Journal by Keri Smith. Go to Jamie Ridler's Wreck This Journal website and add your name to the roster. Then, every Friday until July 31st, blog about your Wreck This Journal  experience. Easy-peasy.

Except, not so easy-peasy. Not for my uptight self, anyway.

Wreck This Journal encourages spontaneity, destruction, absurdity, messiness, wildness, and complete lack of self inhibition. It's an actual journal, with instructions on each page. Like, "Burn this page." Or, "Find a way to wear the journal."

Oh my.

Can Karen "Never draw attention to yourself" Young loosen up enough for this?

Damn it, she's going to try!

But she's going to have to start with something easy:

 

 

Hmm...that was strangely liberating.

I think this may be the beginning of a fantastic journey.

With his kindergarten diploma in hand...

 

...our little guy is ready to conquer the world. Congratulations, Nathan!

Seeking Bliss

 

 

 It doesn't have to be champagne and roses or a bubble bath and a book...sometimes, most of the time, it can be found in something as simple as a comforting bowl of Malt O' Meal...

Sunday Scribblings: Covert

 

Concealed, secret, or hidden. A shelter, cover, or disguise.  

Can I keep things hidden, and yet still be authentic? I know that I can't wear a disguise and still be real. But a shelter, yes, that is good. Someplace to go and escape the storm.

On Thursday, I missed Nathan's school's Volunteer Tea. Caught up in the plans for the weekend away, I never got around to sending in my RSVP. And when I remembered too late, I shrugged and thought, "oh well, there's always next year."

I didn't know there'd be dancing.

If I'd known, I would have crashed the party. I would have stayed away from the treats. I would have stood in the back, watching alone. I would have shown penitence. But I would have been there. I didn't know. And Nathan danced the Macarena and the Tooty Ta, "holding a picture of [me] in [his] head, so that [he] wouldn't feel sad."

Does that make anyone else want to cry?

And then, also on Thursday, I learned that an old school friend had died two days earlier. We went to junior high and high school together, part of the same tight clique, attending each others' parties, writing each other gossipy notes, privy to each others' triumphs and darkest secrets. We were friends until our junior year when we had a really stupid fight and then didn't speak again. And now she's gone.

I didn't even realize how upset I was until I tried to tell Mark and couldn't get the words out, the grief rendering me mute. And not just grief, but shame, too. She'd attempted to "friend" me on Facebook last autumn and I ignored her. Petty and small, yes. Somehow, "But I didn't know she was going to die" doesn't seem an adequate response.

And guess what? Friday was my fortieth birthday. Not sure what to do with myself, I wandered the mall, stopping to hide in quiet corners when I felt my eyes fill. Thinking of my baby, thinking of my friend being buried on my birthday. Wondering at the fact that I could simultaneously feel so old, and yet know that my friend, the same age as me, had died far too young.

After Nathan came home, I took him to a birthday party. The mother of the birthday girl is my closest friend here in Maryland, and yet I said nothing. She didn't remember it was my birthday and had no clue about the rest of it. I donned my mask. I smiled, I laughed, I congratulated her on some well-deserved good news, and all the while, I kept shoving down the pain.

Am I being private or am I withholding? Am I connected or disconnected? Am I seeking shelter or am I pretending? Can you know me if I only give you pieces? Do I really want you to know me?

Concealed, secret or hidden. A shelter, cover or disguise.

Snapshots from a weekend alone with my love...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Shepardstown, West Virginia; The Bavarian Inn; The Potomac River**