Can you imagine?

I am an artist. I always have been. But I am a timid artist. Showing my art to people is equivalent to peeling open my chest and baring my soul for all the world to see. That has always been the scary part of art to me. The vulnerability.
I tend to show my pieces to only a few of my very close friends. People with whom I know will not poke their grubby little fingers inside my chest and pick apart my soul. Those same people gush about my art and encourage me to sell my work. I want to but the timid part of me says, "No. what if....."
When it comes to my writing, I have shared my work with only two people; my husband, because I am safe with him and my son, because he will not only be brutally honest with me but is an artist himself.
I have met another artist who has taken a warm rag and begun washing the crust from my eyes so that I can open them and see my world for what it is. A tiny, dank, self imposed prison of timidness with strict rules that govern my days to give myself routine. I like routine. Routine gives me discipline and a sense of purpose. It also gives me some semblance of control over my fibromyalgia and CMP.
Not today! Today is a new day. I have begun reading a book that my new friend told me about - her name is Tanya, by the way. I am going to ask her if I may link her blog to mine so that you might get to know her too.
After reading part of the book that Tanya told me about, I can see how restrictive I am with myself. I had stopped writing for all of the wrong reasons - and I love to write. It is my happy place. I have been denying myself that which brings me joy because others might pick apart that most vulnerable part of me. But now I see, who cares what they think of my writing? If it brings me joy and maybe a few other people someday, does it really matter what my critics think? Now is the time to tune out my very worst critic too. That voice in my head that whispers, "You are not good enough. What do you know anyway?" I did just that this morning.
Today I dove headlong back into that deep ocean that is my imagination and I wrote. Then I wrote some more. I wrote so joyously for so long, I lost track of time and forgot that writing again or not, there is still a schedule to keep with my body. I wrote right through eating breakfast and lunch and taking my medicine and doing my stretching exercises. I'm all ready paying for that. I guess that I really do need a schedule in order to care for myself and my family but that schedule does not have to become a self imposed prison.
I have two friends now named Tanya. My close friend Tanya D. has been telling me to write and work on my art for a long time now. So has my friend Amalie. Now I have a new friend also named Tanya whom I believe God sent into my life just as he did Tanya D. and Amalie. I am listening. I am writing and I am rediscovering the pure joy that the act of putting pen to paper brings into my life. The 'scary mountain' that was once writing has shrunk dramatically, telling me that all I needed to do was take that first step. Put that first word on the page.
We were meant to use the gifts that we were born with. Sometimes we allow what others think or say about our gifts to stop us from developing them into something that has the power to bring us untold joy. I am guilty of that. I have decided to forgive myself and use those gifts. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a story to write.