August, 2007
SPC: by the shore
I love how the dodgy lens of the Holga gives a nostalgic feel to each image . You can’t help but feel a bit of nostalgia when you’re walking along the shore you’ve walked along your whole life. Living back in my home town as I do, I often find myself in locations that dredge up memories from the past, some good, some bad, some downright hilarious. It’s like walking through a photo album.
August, 2007
Enough is enough
{Sweet Betty on the beach earlier this month}
When there’s too much to be done, I tend to do nothing. I’ll have a to do list as long as my arm, and every evening more gets added, as tasks from the day are carried over to the next. I could provide an equally long list of things I can’t stand about myself, my lack of motivation being one of them.
As luck would have it, it’s about this time of the month when my hormones start to take over and my mood plummets, down into the cosy basket of the black dog – you could set your watch to my cycle it’s so regular. But this week I’m fighting back, this week I’m trying something new. Enough with the to do lists and procrastinating and excuses. Enough with the fear of failure.
I’ve made a deal with myself – I will do either one thing, or work for one hour, towards my dream, every day. That’s it. Just one thing or one hour. The idea is to break through the fear, push past the inertia and overwhelm, and do something, anything, that takes me one tiny step closer to what I want. The rest of the day I can lie on the sofa if I want to (which obviously I wouldn’t do) so long as I do my one thing.
I started this cunning plan at the weekend, and I’m pleased to report that so far it’s working really well. I can’t do everything; I can’t create what I want in a day. But I can do one thing (one thing which morphed into several things today before I even realised what I was doing). I’m also noting down what I do each day in my journal at night, to make the point to my subconscious that it IS possible to do things and move forward, and not slide down into the ‘I’m not good enough, so why bother’ crap that my mind spews out so easily. I’ve had thirty-four years of this fear and it hasn’t worked, so now I’m trying something new.
August, 2007
Work in progress
There are days when being a creative soul is a real pain in the arse.
I over stimulate myself with books and words and art and photography and creative blogs and ideas and dreams and hopes and expectations. I try to squeeze every last drop of inspiration out of my day: I’ll half watch a film while reading a book; I’ll take pictures while listening to music; I’ll upload prints to my Etsy store while scribbling in my journal. Smoke will be flying out of the back of my mac as I force Photoshop to do my bidding, flicking between Firefox and Word and my email while a document saves. The postman rings the doorbell, delivering photographs and film as I rush out the door to take more pictures while the light is still good.
Life was much calmer last year when I was writing the book, but life was much smaller too. I’m slowly adjusting to this new pace of living, though I could do more and procrastinate less. Sure, I look busy, but it’s not focussed busy. My attention wanders just as my interests do: photography, writing, poetry, painting, collage, interior design. I want to do it all, hence the artistic multi-tasking. I’m ravenous these days, hungry for cameras and paint, for food and love.
I want MORE of everything.
I should probably pace myself.
Thank you for your wonderfully supportive and loving comments on my last post ~ to have such fabulous cheerleaders out there is truly a blessing. You’ve all been witnesses on this journey with me, and I’d have gotten lost many times if you hadn’t been there :-)
August, 2007
SPC, and a realisation
Holga self portrait for SPC
The problem with spending a few days out of your normal routine is that when you return you want that routine, the one that has held you afloat for so long, to be changed. It doesn’t fit like it did just a few day ago.
We had a lovely time, the five of us, reading and cooking, chatting and playing games. The weather was rainy and grey and kept us inside our beautifully converted cottage in the middle of a forest, but we didn’t mind. There was sewing and making and decisions about where to have dinner to be made.
Yet away from the distractions of email, internet, television and phones, I found myself feeling unanchored and uneasy, and this manifested in a way it hasn’t for quite some time: hot, wet, self-piteous tears, tears that refused to stop.
I’ve become very adept at pushing emotions away. The tears that fell had been building, and as soon as I stopped running, they caught up with me. I miss him, that doesn’t stop – may never stop – but there is something growing that is starting to eclipse the missing of my love…
It’s the missing of love, the missing of intimacy.
And it took a morning of tears and my sister’s comforting hugs and understanding words to really let the penny drop. The grief falls away like a dead leaf from a branch and in its place is the shoot of something new, some new potential happiness that is waiting to be nurtured, that wants to be given a chance despite me doing everything I can to stop it.
I don’t know what to do with this realisation, but now I’ve acknowledged it it’s floating around me, making my skin itch, making my muscles ache. How do you get back on the horse after something like this?
