I’ve been creating stuff. Just to keep busy.
And when I say stuff, I mean...well, stuff. Sky’s the limit. Everything from headbands to furniture to jewelry to curtains to Barbie clothes to what I hope might even constitute art. I make most of it out of freebies or garbage. I see all of these discarded things and can’t help but see potential in them. (I love junk.) Most of it is complete experimentation, a learn-as-you-go sort of thing without much of a plan.
I’m a “re-imaginer.” (Yes. I like that. I hope to put it on a business card someday.)
But what I am finding that I truly love is the process of creation. It’s fun and it makes me feel alive. I have a soft spot for ugly things and this drive to coax the beauty out of them, and the process is truly satisfying.
Part of being brave, I decided, was to put these creations out there. I mean, my house can only hold so much. And it’s my sincere hope that other people can enjoy the stuff I’ve been making as much as I’ve enjoyed making it.
It’s a night stand.
Some of the knobs are vintage (recycled from some other piece I upgraded), and the top is covered in pages from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. (Relax--the book was already damaged.) I love the result. I’m proud of it.
And putting it out there, telling people that I do all this stuff, is a bit scary. It's like revealing a part of myself that I've always kept hidden. But I’ve recently resolved to be braver.
So, here goes. Enjoy.
This month has been about bravery for me: I painted my toenails bright blue, I bought some crazy leggings, and I drove my car for the first time in two years.
I got my driver’s license back.
I feel like I’m 16 again. (Hence the leggings and blue toenails.)
I sobbed when I opened that letter: reinstated. It felt like my entire life was being reinstated. Reinstatement meant independence. Reinstatement meant freedom from my rigid, hyper-planned schedule. Reinstatement meant that I didn’t have to rely so heavily on my husband and my grandma and my parents and my in-laws and my sister. I had become so used to planning my life around other people’s availability (because I always needed a chauffeur) that I had forgotten what true freedom felt like.
When you have epilepsy, driving is scary. These past two years have been filled with anxiety and fear: epilepsy is such an unpredictable disorder, and just because a medication is working now doesn’t mean it always will. I was terrified of having another accident or causing an accident or destroying someone’s house or killing a pet dog or hitting a school bus full of kindergarteners...okay, I have to stop now. I can’t let myself fall down that rabbit hole of horrors.
I can’t live my life in constant fear, even if those fears are legitimate.
I’m more hesitant than I was at 16--I have driven twice now, and I did ujjayi breaths before I even started the car. But just getting behind the wheel was a huge, terrifying, life-changing step for me. Starting the car was another.
And driving six miles to the store to buy my own groceries with pink leggings and blue toenails?