of late.

We went to see The Giver.  And I cried in that theater probably six times over my humanity and the nature of existence and tasting of the bitter to learn to prize the good and the devastating beauty of that damn sunset.  Needless to say, I really liked the film adaptation of this story.  Probably too much.  I know this because whenever I bring it up with someone, there's a moment in the conversation where they give me a startled expression that seems to say, Okay, woah.  

I'm taking an art class at a local institute of healing arts.  It's based on the principles from the book The Artist's Way, which I probably couldn't possibly recommend more than I do right now.  I've only read two chapters and it's changed my life already.  (I know, whoah.  But I can't help my enthusiasm for things I actually care about.  It seems so little of life is focused on these Things That Matter.)  It's a class that teaches how to art, and also how to allow yourself to art.  It consists of many things, including Morning Pages.  

This is where you wake up half hour early and immediately write three pages.  Three pages of whatever is in your head.  The point of it is to shut up your creative Censor, the one who lives in the back of your mind, whose criticism cuts deeper than anyone else's.  You know of whom I refer to.  (Of whom I refer?  Who I refer to?  What?)  I'm flabbergasted at how free-flowing my mind is in the morning.  Like hot butter.  Also at the reality of me waking up early for anything at all.  For me, regarding waking up, the struggle is real.  Too real.  It's been this way my entire life.  I guess all it takes is waking up to do what I love.  That seems worth it.  

But not jogging.  Not a chance.

Drew and I have been jamming out after dinner in our little spare bedroom full of instruments and equipment, some of which belong to us, some of which we stash for other people.  We don't mind.  I've been pretending to be a drummer for about a week now, and if pretending to be a drummer is this much fun, I can't imagine how fun it is to actually be a drummer.  

He helps me, that Drew.  To be brave and just try it.  To banish this ridiculous notion built in to me that in order for anything to be worth doing, it must be done flawlessly and better than anyone else.  We're chipping away at that one, a little bit at a time.  And it's amazing how much more fulfilled I feel.  I'm excited about being alive and breathing air in and out.  

And so, I think I'll keep it up, this being brave.  This daring to be terrible at something.  I'm going to see where it takes me.