Today is like most Sundays. I wake up grudgingly, wanting not to face my reality. Wanting to live among my kaleidoscope dreaming and be at peace within my imagination. My legs swing over the edge of my mattress and away from nurturing sheets and plant sadly on the small bits of laundry I have yet to do. Another chore. Another neglected duty. It seems like I would rather mope about the things I need to do than do them. This is also the case for the things I want to do.
I have a full case of paintballs near my gearbag, as well as an open invitation to play with former pro players and do so for free. I have a caddy full of brushes and paints and a number of canvases and wooden planks to create images with. I have a large binder full of sketches and written ideas and dialog and character concepts and a computer I bought for the purpose of writing and editing. Everything is there but me. I am someplace else, hiding away amidst the rubble of the life I've lives and the skins I've shed. Hiding away because this is yet another change and the most painfully recognized change of my life. I am finally being me, finally becoming myself and that fear comes out a womb of anger and sadness and resentment that I had to discover this person, at such a late age. That I had to be locked up in a spiritual sarcophagus because ME wasn't needed by people, that I wasn't important. I was tricked into this admonishment. As tearful as I am that I am a disenspirited body while my fragile real me is hiding from the world I was in and partially created, I am happy that I am at least healing enough to have the courage to bring myself about, and thankful that I have had the help in getting here.
A cup of coffee warms away the fogs of war in my mind and body. For as routine feeling as this Sunday morning has been, it has a new tagalong. A new sensation with it; a wonderful stray emotion that thought it would try me out. An emotion that should never be homeless, but maybe this emotion was mine and ran away because I neglected it, and like a loyal companion came back when tail wagging, loving as ever and not only forgiving but accepting. The wagging tail of Hope.
It has a strange way of making things seem achievable. Hope has a way of making you smile when things seem desolate. Hope is the little puppy that never ages, that never dies, and never stops loving you. So today on my unkept patio I was inspired to do something, and this blog was the first thing. I had to write about this, because it wasn't expected, and it was so pleasant to wake to Hope at my bedside rather than will it and wish it to return to me after half the day has gone, just to get me through the rest of the day.
I have all these tools and blessings, these gifts and they sit alone in overgrown foliage, dusted with neglect and dirty but like all blessing still pristine if given the proper cleaning and use. The only thing missing from these tools doing their job is the mechanic to bring about their potential, and that is me. The real me. These tools are mine, custom made for my talents and waiting for me.
Now maybe Hope can help Me get the courage and trust to return from hiding and be the glorious, complete person I was born to be. To be the best person I can, and with Hope and these tools that I've never lost but need to hone, to be guiltlessly happy.
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