It’s been a while since writing, my fingers stiff and cumbersome. A Fall breeze slowly moves in, my new sheer curtains gently moving, swaying to the sunlight dancing across the landscape of the backyard to my new studio. It feels like meeting an old friend again. I listen to old 1970s music and one of my favorites—”Ramble On,” by Led Zeppelin to get ready for the new Season.

Where have you been?

It’s been so hard, but I finally have a place of my own. The nights cooling off, and the intensity of Summer is just about over, but I’m still restless, trying to get settled into my new place.

I love it when the words flow, and gently move across the page, but there are other times I need to write and it’s painful. My fingers move slowly, the thoughts like baked molasses; jammed up, difficult, and hard-edged. Fall is a good time to let go of so much. It’s probably why the words are so hard to put onto a page—so much that is dying.

So many things that I thought would be, so many things set up to make this transition in my life ok, so much that has to be grieved. Middle age is like an old friend that I thought I knew something about after planning so much but turned out to be very different. Spending so much time saving and working for retirement only to be completely blindsided and everything turned upside down. I think of the person I was and realize that person was the one who was going to retire, but she is gone. I didn’t really get to say goodbye or be that person who for so long worked so hard to achieve certain dreams and have them all destroyed before they even had time to bear fruit.

Artists often have stillbirths. Projects that go nowhere, aren’t accepted, don’t come to fruition—ridiculed! Projects that are destroyed too early or rejected, hated even. Why did you make such BAD ART? Why did YOU create such a bad life? Why did you make such poor decisions? Why do YOU make Art at all? The critic comes to call like the demon it is. It’s that time of the year. I think he finally killed my muse. He had been threatening for a long time and this time I think he finally did it.

“Who do YOU think you are,” they recently said often enough to rear old triggers that I had thought long gone. My mother used to yell those very words each time I tried to do anything creative. I feel twelve again, cowering in the corner trying to explain to calm the raging she would do if I dared question this accusation. It never worked and I learned to keep quiet and save my creative time for when they left and I did all the chores I had to do. Making the house clean was my job. The added bonus was the quietness of drawing or writing in my journal.

Middle age is a time to reconnect with old trauma. I had thought that I had done enough inner child work when I overcame so much abuse as a child, but Menopause has a way of pushing you deeper. Mine was particularly difficult when I found myself homeless at 50 years old believing I would be ok. Everything lay in pieces around me or gone—destroyed! The frightened little girl that I worked so hard to take care of was terrified that I had been in charge and didn’t seem now to know what I was doing at all!

WTF? had become my favorite expression after never swearing or only when I was really overwhelmed and incredulous. Along with Fuck you! Who was that person? She was someone who had for so long been denied her anger that it was surprising when I realized she had gone mute just like when I was a girl. Now she was finding her voice and speaking out. Dear God! WTF? Do you know how pissed they are going to be? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Who do YOU think you are?

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

As one of my favorite Art mentors Julia Cameron says, yes, you can make bad Art! It’s better than not making it at all. Yes, you can make mistakes, try new things, say no, dance alone, and be who you are! Creating is often a process and the finished product is only one part. The act of creating is important too. Often I look back at something, and it looks better than I had thought. I’m finding bits of my work here and there online after so much was stolen and instead of thinking the work was so bad, it is actually ok. It reminds me of a different time. So much has changed. It softens, the critic relaxes, and stops the incessant echoes of all those that viciously demand to know who you think you are.

I’m ME, I’m an Artist, I’m now writing. It’s ok to not be so great at it. It’s ok to create another me, another life, another dream!

The Demon goes away—banished! The writing vanquishes his threats. Well, it’s no good, he grumbles and leaves. Yeah, I say, well, Fuck you!

Happy to have written something today as I settle in. To connect again with my readers and to know it’s ok to not have the answers, a great life, or even the questions. The page is no longer blank and a calm settles in as the afternoon sun makes its way across the yard. My muse might be persuaded to return in the process.

Miss you all, dear readers. Hope you’re creating and getting ready for Fall. Hope your transitions, new plans, and new projects, are taking shape in this season of change, renewal, and growth.

Namaste, Rhonda