Insecurities

 What I have been up to? Photography class. Trying to capture motion. Getting frustrated and super cleaning things like my bath tub and faucet (Norwex paste beats Barkeeps Friend in a scrubbing test, though both are good. Also, bronze sink fixtures from the 80's should maybe not be so enthusiastically scrubbed unless you like pale gold......just saying). 

Nervous energy fuels a scrubbing hand pretty darn well, but there are the in between moments that I can't do anything. These are the thoughts that pester me:

I feel like I don't measure up.

I'm not a good enough writer.

I am terrible at photography.

My kids hate me. Probably because I don't read to them enough.

My husband doesn't even notice me. Unless I don't come down to make breakfast.

My family shrinks every year because I can't fit in and it's easier to just cut me off.

Or else they just think I am full of hippie bullshit and still talk to me but only because it's funny later to regale others with how awful they think I am.

My housekeeping skills? Nada. Just don't talk to me about this. (sobs)

And so on.......

Then I get publication notices for my writing and photography. I get invited to conferences. I travel. The kids tell me that this is the best day ever! People ask me to teach them homesteading stuff. The kids and my husband rave about my cooking to strangers.

I wonder if folks actually see me. See the wounded and fragile person. See my insecurities.

Sometimes someone sends me a hateful awful email or message, someone who knows my vulnerabilities and can speak directly to those wounds.  I write pretty openly, so they are not hard to find. That cruelty, even from strangers crumples me.

It doesn't stop me from writing my experience. Well, not anymore at least. The cycle has one more piece though, someone else sends me something uplifting- telling me that something they read led them to ask questions, make changes, try something....and it was life changing for the better! Then I realise that I need to remember to tell people in my own life how much I value, cherish, and adore them, how much they impact me and my life.

I can get back up and into the world again. I know that life is not an even paved road with sweet surfaces and I am not running with perfect shoes. No, my life is running barefooted through pastures, walking the streets of Prague until my boots actually fall apart, climbing mountains, kissing children, breathing in sunshine, and sometimes trudging through rain, or snow drifts, or getting drenched in an ice storm to be a good shepherdess. I chose my own path and it rocky, hard, sharp, and wonderful.

I try and keep it real. Sometimes, that's all we can do.