Tag: doubt

Scratch

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This weekend,
I suffered a flare-up of the ever-familiar
doubt,
fueled and fanned by the never far away question
“Do I even have a voice to call my own?”

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Having spent my life as a teacher,
a mother,
a wife,
a daughter –
having written plenty of personal histories
been a freelance graphic designer helping folks look good in print
edited books penned by other women
now stitching Nancy’s drawings,
I can’t help but wonder:
do I lose my voice by giving other women their voice?

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Is my voice one of back-up,
second string,
bridesmaid?
Is that as good as it gets for me?

My maternal grandmother made biscuits from scratch three times a day.
Folks devoured them enthusiastically (even when cold)
and praised her name with reverence and awe.

Do I have anything original and worthwhile to say from scratch?

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Having almost finished In Our Own Language 3 (shown in photos above),
I begin stitching In Our Own Language 4.
95 drawings made in November 2012
in which Nancy wrote her name
then covered it up,
camouflaged it,
hid it.

on today’s menu: existential stew

TheBarefootHeart

i don’t know why people turn away from the nancys of the world.
i don’t know why i find them so much more desirable to be with than hoards of “normal” people i know.

i don’t know why some folks steal other folks’ thunder.
i don’t know why that makes me so damn furious.

i don’t know which colors are analogous and complementary.
(oh, i know where to look it up,
i just don’t know why i can’t remember that.)
(or why i think i should.)

i don’t know what makes for a good hug
(i just know when i get one.)

i don’t know where to add on to our house.
i don’t know why i can’t seem to live a fine life with only what will fit into a backpack.

i don’t know how some people can be so absolutely sure about things.
i don’t know why i question everything and attach qualifiers like “the way i see it . . .” or “in my experience . . . “.
(okay, i lied. i know why the qualifiers: they’re tacked on because i know as well as you do that i don’t know everything.)

i don’t know how to tailor clothes.
(and i’m fine with that.)

i don’t know why plaids and polka dots look just fine on some people
and so atrocious on others.

i don’t know why people feel an intense need to convert others.
and i especially don’t know why they act on it.

i don’t know why i can’t tell you in one short, snappy phrase what i’m about.
some folks have themes,
i have a theme park.

i don’t know which is bigger: a universe or a galaxy.

i don’t know when “earn” became a 4-letter word.

i don’t know how to tell what are load-bearing walls.

i don’t know why or how some people stay.

i don’t know how people can have deep, unwavering religious faith.

i don’t know what the magic ingredient is that has some victims moving on with their lives in the spirit of self-determination while others get all comfy in the victim hood.

i don’t know why people abuse power,
manipulate others,
lie, steal, and cheat.

i don’t know why you don’t just push up your sleeves and set about changing things if you’re not happy with your life.

i don’t know why we don’t value and practice independent thinking any more than we do,
why we don’t ask more questions,
why we roll eyes and attack people who do.
(okay, at the risk of being called a conspiracy theorist, i think i do have a theory here: people who think for themselves are hard to control. we’ll talk more about that later.)

i don’t know why knowing is more valued than not knowing.