Who do I think I am?

It seems so pretentious. Whenever someone asks what I do I say “I’m an artist,” followed by a little shame. Who am I to say I’m an artist? Who do I think I am to compare myself to those geniuses that hang in galleries and museums?

I’m nobody. And the only thing I have in common with Renoir is a love of painting. A love of art. A dream.

That’s what artists are. They are dreamers. There is something inexplicably inside that says I need to paint. To write. To show the world I see the beauty and the pain and all the glorious moments of just living.

Am I really an artist? Maybe. But it is always a journey. It’s always about the first step, then the next, then the one after. So here I am. Taking the first steps.

So who am I? I’m so glad you asked. I am a middle aged woman, whose done all the woman things. Mom to many, lucky enough to be with my soulmate. I had an unfulfilling career as a housewife, and an even less fulfilling career in office management. I was very good at both, and found a lot of joy and accomplishment. But here I am, just turned 40, and I know that life moves so fast. It goes by in an instant. We stress and worry and climb ladders to what end?

I want to step off the ladder. I want to live in a way that I feel my life hasn’t been a lie to myself. I want to experience every adventure and joy in triumph and heartbreak. I want to be able to speak to the world. Hopefully, my art will carry those words on the wind and reach the souls that hear them.

I am an artist, a creative, a human being floating around the universe until my atoms return to the stars they came from. I am alive and joyful and scared and so damn lucky to get to experience this life and pain.

I think that today I am me.