Be Different

Whimsy & Wildflowers

I often times believe that my mind must function a bit differently from the rest of the “normal” world.

All of our life events mold and change the way we think. The environment we grow up in, the friends we have, how we see ourselves, every single minuscule part of our lives form our personalities. Now I’m not going to sugarcoat it, I’ve experienced some pretty jacked up things. As a result of these unpleasant experiences, my mind has a fascinating ability to protect itself. The first year we lived in Texas, and I missed my house terribly, my mind simply refused to believe that we had moved at all. We were on some sort of crazy long vacation, and my home was waiting patiently for me to return.

Healthy?

Eh…….. at least it kept me sane.

There is not one bit of me that wants to “fit in.” I tried for a long time to be the acceptable housewife, but it was SO HARD. You remember that one weird kid in elementary, who ate crayons, talked to himself, and probably wore a cape to school? I was that kid in the mom world. I felt like I needed to fit in, so that my children would have friends. Now that we no longer live in white bread Utah, I feel insanely free. I have shifted my goal from being like the sheep and blending in, to finding my own damn herd. My herd will be rainbow-colored and full of joyous laughter.

I see photography.
I look around the room and beautiful images pop up. Focal points, bokeh, black and white, f-stops, aperture, etc. I work out the photos in my head and they are gorgeous. The way the light hits my daughters hazel eyes as she reads Junie B. Jones. The little dimples in my son’s smile as squeals with utter delight. Each individual follicle of my husband’s glorious beard when he sleeps soundly on the couch. I get to see magnificent beautiful every day.

I think novels.
There is a monologue forever running through my head. Paragraphs, sentences, semicolons, adjectives, verbs, nouns, and so on. “His chocolate eyes were filled with rage as he pounded on the door with all his might. Though it seemed impossible, she feared his force would soon break the glass to pieces. He wailed again, demanding she let him in. Her eyes begun to sting, a fierce fire was blinding her vision. ‘MOMMY,’ he roared. ‘MOMMY, BATH!’ With shampoo clouding her vision, she admitted defeat. After opening the door, he beamed up at her with the most breathtaking smile. His arms stretched up, fingers grasping impatiently. Picking up her son, she accepted that she would never get to take a shower by herself again.”

I feel art.
The colors of emotion swirl around inside me, and I do my best to get them out and onto a canvas. After a bout of crippling depression I’m filled with deep and violent purples, dreary grey, and a whole bucket load of black – soul stealing, mind numbing black. The colors all streak down the page, dripping onto the floor. When I am chasing my giggling children through a field of grass I am exploding with light. Swirls of dandelion yellow shoot out and mix with a vibrant blue.

I am different, and I embrace it.

If there is ONE thing I want to teach my children, it is to be themselves. It’s painfully easy to be an echo of someone else, but takes real courage to find our own unique voice.

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