It all started with wine one night, as most things do in this life I call mine. A night not unlike other nights that can be either enlightening or get me into trouble. Mercifully, this particular thought struck me during moments of the former. Though, I am now scratching my head to question: "What's so bad about getting into trouble?"
But I am getting ahead of myself....
I surmise several possible reasons that you are here. It is because you know me well (and the trouble that has been known to find me); you know me very, very well and are nervous I may mention herein the trouble we've gotten in together; you know someone who has spent time getting into trouble with me; or perhaps you've stumbled here, maybe by way of some wine-induced googlefest using my name. In this case, dear stranger, I hope you bought something from my Amazon wish list in the process.* All of the above, by the way, are acceptable reasons to be here. If you end up liking it, tell your friends to pay a visit.
Looking at some of the very first posts by some brave, pioneering bloggers, I notice words like "scary" and "terrifying" to describe starting their blogs, but observing the vast number of blogs in existence, there undoubtedly remains a myriad of compelling reasons to do so. The idea of a new project often begins as a noble feat, fraught with both fear and excitement, but the most difficult part of doing anything, for me anyway, is STARTING it. It always seems like it's a monumental leap - of faith, of taking action, of doing, and all while hoping to achieve a modicum of success.
But since when did everything have to be so "successful", anyway? When we were kids using legos to build castles or finger painting with egg tempera on newspaper (you know who you are out there), everything turned out to be a masterpiece to behold, resulting from very little emperical skill. Feeling confident in our squirrelly, swirling pet portraits and smoking-chimney backyard landscapes, some of us even took to the sidewalks, where gorgeous chalk-drawn wonderlands of imagination sprawled out in front of our houses, causing all passers-by to step aside to admire. Someone looking on may have wondered how this concrete canvas could be so beautiful or perhaps ponder where pastel green chalk really comes from. The mind reels. Something I do know for certain: They were drawn with the unbridled enthusiasm, excitement, and passion of childhood with unfettered courage and complete abandon. There. I said it.
Chalk is permeable, translatable, but also, gloriously impermanent. Drawing in Chalk represents the type of abandon in which we could take a lesson in fearlessness from. Insert "Art as Metaphor for life" here _____________. So, here's me, reverting to my chalk-drawing-on-sidewalk self - the one in my fantasy childhood where my Mom lets me drink a glass of wine while doing it.
I suppose, fantasies aside, being an adult does have its priveleges.
* Though it would be appreciated, this is not necessary to continue reading. However, you will be required to leave only positive feedback.