My year of keeping promises to myself. That would be the theme for this year, with the exception of a few; those will happen next year.
The promises: I started writing. I was in New York on my birthday. I went back to school full-time. I felt at home in my body. I left all my volunteer commitments, and gained one new short-term one. I did not fully realize what it meant to keep a promise to myself, and what it has meant to be breaking them all these years, not giving myself what I wanted, or needed. I do treat myself, but this was different. The treating has been like a passifier, I feel sad, then I indulge. The promises have been about things that will help me grow. I thought I was dying. My spirit was dying. Dying from sameness, dying from letting myself down, and not thinking I was worth keeping a promise to. I have a hard time with the concept of self-love, like it is contrived or new age, or hokey, or selfish. I think it’s more about self-respect, which is something we all need to have. If I don’t think Im worth anything then no matter how many people tell me otherwise, it will never be true. I have had people telling me nice things about myself for a long time, and I haven’t believed them, not totally. I haven’t wanted to need the external approval, that If I counted on that, then my feelings about who I am would be tenative. One of my teachers told me that if there is anything she wants me to take away from this year, it is that I learn to trust myself, trust my view, my artistic vision. I’ll be satisfied with trusting myself, which is what comes from keeping a promise.