The Beauty of Being 9/22:

I wrote this in 2022, at the end of a year that felt like a turning point, a crossroads where the paths of accomplishment and uncertainty converged. I had achieved so much, yet I found myself wrapped in an irony so thick it was almost tangible, laughing with strangers and schmoozing with potential collectors, all the while discussing my artistic process until the words became a blur. In my forties, I was acting more than I ever did as a theater student at nineteen, a curious twist of fate that left me both exhilarated and lost. One night, as I stood alone in the corner of an exhibition hall, the crowd swirled around me, a sea of artists waiting with bated breath to see who would be deemed worthy of recognition. In that moment, a profound realization washed over me: we were all just small children, yearning to be noticed, desperate for someone to recognize our specialness. I thought back to my own childhood, to the roots of my artistry, and suddenly, compassion filled the space where contempt had lingered just moments before. No longer did I view my fellow artists with disdain; instead, I saw little faces and tiny hands reaching out for connection, for validation. That night, I returned home and poured my heart onto the page, tears flowing freely at first, but soon giving way to a tender understanding of myself and the shared human experience. In that hall, amidst the clamor of ambition and longing, I embraced the beauty of being a thinking, feeling being in a world that often feels too vast and indifferent.

From the journal:

We are of all the ages, ageless, carrying within us the weight of our entire history, a history woven with threads of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. Each of us walks through this world with a small child nestled deep inside, that innocent spirit still curious and wide-eyed, ready to experience the vastness of life anew. I find myself reflecting on this tonight, on how we embody every version of ourselves, all at once, a cacophony of identities vying for attention, each demanding its rightful place in the sun. 

What would it feel like to approach life with that childlike wonder once more? To remember the thrill of the unknown, the excitement that tingled at the edges of our consciousness whenever we encountered something new? We often forget, caught up in the grind of adulthood, the responsibilities that weigh heavy on our shoulders. And yet, these parts of ourselves—the scared, curious ones—still exist; they linger in the shadows, yearning for the light.

Perhaps we should whisper lullabies to those fragments of our souls, those echoes of our past selves. Let us coo and sing to them, rock ourselves gently in the quiet moments of solitude. We can be our own soft pillow, our warm blanket, the gentle hand that soothes and comforts in times of distress. How often do we forget to befriend ourselves amidst the chaos, to offer the compassion we so readily extend to others? 

There are reactions that seem to rise from nowhere, like unexpected storms swirling within. They tug at our hearts and minds, often leaving us confused, wondering why we feel so unsettled. It’s in these moments that we must remember—we carry within us the remnants of past fears, memories like stones in our pockets, and lessons learned through the crucible of experience. It’s not always easy to confront these parts that feel agitated, restless, and ill at ease, those fragments that have not yet learned to self-soothe, to find safety in the world.

So, I write to remind myself to be my own rocking chair, to pull myself into an embrace and allow my eyelids to close. I imagine my inner child traveling with me in the dream space, easing me back into the waking world, gently, warmly, softly, slowly. If I need to cry, if I need to laugh, if I need to rest, I must invite myself in. There’s a certain magic in allowing myself to swing softly, back and forth, curled up in a hammock where the warm breeze carries the scent of safety.

In this cocoon of love, I can reflect on the layers of my existence, the many lives I have lived, and the ones still waiting to be discovered. I will cradle my own spirit, nurturing the scared and curious child within, and in doing so, I may just find that I can embrace the entirety of who I am—every age, every version, all at once. And perhaps, in this dance of self-compassion, I will feel a little less alone in this world, a little more at peace with the beautiful chaos of being.