Okay, maybe not every single time you get cranky. . . there’s only so much nuance you can cram into a title.
I didn’t want to write this blog. My friend Tia didn’t want to make her pendant either. It isn’t because I don’t like writing blogs; they’re totally absorbing. And Tia loves making jewelry. She can sit doing it for hours, happy as a clam.
But we still didn’t want to do it.
So, as you know, I’m big into helping people make their dreams come true. It is this atavistic urge, rising in me, emerging from my gut like Sigourney Weaver’s babies in, “Aliens.” It wants to be bigger than the body that holds it. It stretches which contains it. When I unleash it, it howls in rage and joy, changing everything in its path. It is a beast that will not be denied. It’s ravenous and relentless and it will not stop until I create. Until I am finally of service.
Unless there’s a new series on Netflix.
Who made that peerless piece of aesthetically confounding confection you see to your left, you ask? It is in fact I, your intrepid dreamer-doer, Cherie.
It’s bad. I know.
I’m afraid. I haven’t been taking care of business and it’s getting out of hand. Little things, but they’re adding up.
In her book, Big Magic (So awesome. Buy it, like yesterday), Elizabeth Gilbert describes how she believes our ideas for the things we want to create are actually sentient beings; that they float as translucent, ghost-like specters through our workaday world, looking for a receptive host to birth them into reality. If you are the right person, the person with the particular passions and skills necessary for its birth, it chooses you. It asks you to use your skills, courage and love to bring it forth into our time-space continuum - to make it “real” book or painting or concerto or pulled pork sandwich food stand, it yearns to be.