My last wife’s last words to me were, “You don’t know who you are at all!” She was right. I know I can be childish and insecure at times—obtuse and indifferent, but people usually love me and like me—I mean at work and in my circles of friends. I am kind and gentle and creative and funny, but was she really right?
Time goes by and we digest such things: I picked up some books; I started to journal; I started to paint. I cannot say I do both daily or weekly or even sometimes monthly, but over the years I think both add to my basket of who I am (in a good way I mean—if you’ve ever read Eckhart Tolle).
So now I paint at least weekly, and I blog and write at least twice a week, often daily. Something has happened to me. When I rode the bus, I began to love the people on the bus—huh. (This is not easy when you drive—it is hard to love people when you cannot see their faces and shoes—only their turn signals they refuse to use.)
And now I feel Love like I have not before, so I think I am learning something good here. So this is what it is like to blossom, to love life. My blog is in a way—my canvas and my journal—a way of finding myself. It is really who I am? I know it creates Love and Joy, so I will keep it up—it works for me.