Vulnerable

Where is that brave young girl who didn’t worry so much about what other people thought?

Asked, while also valuing the adult in me who cares about what other people ┬áthink – in the sense that, they leave with something worthwhile.

It’s a fine line.

…taking risks, trusting instinct-the creative process, being honest-vulnerable, open

while

…not over indulging on your audience, reader, listener, self.

I’ve been told by mentors that if I am fascintaed/busy in the moment, others will be fascinated too.

Is this true?

Brave young girl tells me I need to lighten up and just put the work out there, f@&k ups and all.

Vulnerable adult woman doesn’t want to have her audience, readers, listeners, others leave without something in their heart…

So, I will attempt to make offerings. Because, without offerings, I am neither brave nor will others have a chance to leave with something.

Step one of my little rain dance.

An offering.

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what have i done!?

What have I done!?

Have I just attempted to take myself seriously? Too seriously? At a time when I don’t ‘deserve’ to?

I’ve attempted to put myself out there.

For a minute there, I was in a state of panic because I thought I put myself out there as an ‘artist’. And I felt like a fraud.

I am not an artist? Am I? But my current practice is this:

– watching my son create the most splendid installations around our home. Installations that make me awe struck.

– contact improvisation jams with my son while making sure he doesn’t rip my hair out from my scalp.

– an addiction to creating inside and outside play spaces that provoke and inspire him and his friends.

– carrying, lifting, nose rubbing, back rubbing, cuddling, rocking, being silly.

– an obsession with tiny worlds through terrarium making and ogling.

– singing lullabies and duet improv jazz numbers…off key by the way…but on key enough to help him sleep or smile.

– noticing the simplest of moments and feeling so lucky to have seen it.

– reading.

– so much walking.

– spontaneous adventures.

– occasional lounge room dance offs.

Am I a fraud?

On one hand I think artists who don’t live life surely can’t frame it. And believe me I am living life right now.

On the other, I have been told by many, “If you are not doing the work” you are not an artist.

How dare I create a Facebook page under` the category of ‘artist’. Am I demeaning all of those hard working artists who are “doing the work”!? daily, I really hope not.

No. I’ve been an artist since I was born. It’s how I see the world. It’s how I think. There were times in my life when I had a daily practice, and then there were times I couldn’t. Or just didn’t (more on that in a later post).

This is the longest period though, so I do feel like a fraud.

I promise you, and myself, though that the tears behind the eyes. The pain behind the heart. The unframed joy. The adrenaline from running from a big bad wolf, the fear. The love for my child. The awe of his innate artistry. The stories that have piled up. Untold. Will be. In the way I have always know best to tell them, since i was 5 years old. My little rain dance.

I think I am warming up. I am sorting the beans. I am taking a very slow breath in.

I am seeking.

Searching.

Again.

For a daily practice that realistically fits my life a a mother. And that fuels the telling of story through dance.

while he is sleeping

While he is sleeping. I begin. I’m hungry, the washing sits wet in the basket. I should duck to the toilet. Or even have a shower!? Give the dog a cuddle. Dishes.

No, I begin today. And you, my (hopefully I have) readers, keep me accountable, inspired, accountable and motivated. I can find my own little rain dance again. I will. It’s been three years since I last created work. A solo. I turned into a beach whale when I was pregnant. Dancing resulted in my head in the toilet bowl. This surprised me, disappointed me. But I let myself ride the wave in. And trusted my body wanted rest.

And now, he wakes….

I will be back. Because i want to find my dance again. A practice. I commit to daily rituals that reawaken my choreographer. While he sleeps, with him, alongside him, alongside life, alongside the washing, the dishes, the adventures.

“Mummy”

I have begun my practice again…