Brooklyn's Blog

Dear Diary,

  The name of my blog is 'My Slice of Heaven'.  I like this title.  I really do.  Honestly, that's the way I like to look at things.  My rose-colored glasses sit right there on my dresser.  I put them on, and go about my warm, fuzzy day.  

I avoid the news, usually the telephone, and roam about like an introverted hermit-artist. Occasionally I complain to Hubby that we don't get invited to many dinner parties, but then again, I know that if we did, I would have not much to contribute to conversation and would probably be horribly uncomfortable.  So, roses is the way life works for me, it's comfy cozy, and I like it just fine.

But, then again, do I?  Am I holding out on myself and the world?  

I received this comment on my blog post the other day:

Well. Pleasing Profile and the colourful template. Images enhancing words. Great Mom. Ideal wife. A social neighbour. An artist too. A reflective heart with wisdom. Lucky the acquaintances. Glad to visit and thank You for sharing. Best Wishes. Bye.

It is a really sweet thing to say!  I truly appreciate comments on my blog more than anything.  I think about them.  I ponder them.  I take them to heart.   This one is just above and beyond. 

But is the plastic impression I am putting out there, the complete truth of myself?

 I started thinking this morning about my creative writing professor in college.  She was the best.  Totally unstable, a recovering alcoholic, a divorcee with a troubled teenage daughter, struggling like hell to keep their little house and some food in the dusty cabinets (Lord know she wasn't putting it on the table in fancy dishes).  
But, she wrote.  And she taught us to.  By tapping into that dark part of your heart where the pain comes from, by having the testes to tell the world all the yucky rotten things you have done and people you have hurt.  By, just being real.  Her voice shook when she talked to us.  She had some pretty steep competition in her department, and some pretty nasty critics.  The Bible belt can be a tough place for a woman who knows nothing of Southern Hospitality, posh Sunday best, has no idea how to do small talk, thinks mostly about the burn of tequila, and really really really likes sex (usually in a self-destructive sort of way). 

It seems kinda strange to me that this woman, who has been so influential to me, feels the most safe in front of a computer screen turning her heart inside out for millions to read, and yet, here I sit in front of mine, hiding like a kitten up under my porch.  
I hide behind my pictures, only telling the good times, watching cheesy reality tv and pretending all of life smells like lavender I hope to plant in my backyard very soon?  

Currently, I am about half way through my 30th year.  I had a little mini-breakdown at the beginning of it, realizing how weird it all (you know, life) is and how truly out of control we all are.  I hear that's a pretty common thing to have happen at 29/30. But at the end of that, I told myself that this was my year.  My year to really get to know myself; to create myself, to stand back and watch it all happen;  and to dig deep and give it words.
  
So, here goes...
 And what shall I do with my rose-colored glasses you might ask?
Um...keep them close by for emergencies, of course.  
(Someone has to be the overly positive person in my life.)
But also, get out there, pick up the phone, accept that invitation, and simply let my voice shake too.