​I am a high Creative. And a high Individualistic. Let me explain what this means. We use this very cool tool in our consulting work called Talent Analytics. For those of you who know about DISC, this is like a DISC tool and more. There is this second part to this tool that captures your ambitions. Your motivating values. The things that drive you to show up and do what you do within the behavioral style that you are. 
 
My top two motivating values, my drivers, are Individualistic and Creative. (And I kind of like to help people) This basically means that I want to do things exactly the way that I want to do them. And I think out of the box and come up with new and creative ways to do pretty much anything. 
 
But let’s move on to painting. I did not know I could paint. And then I went to a class. The high creative in me needed another creative outlet. So I went to a painting class. And painted. And I can. Who knew…
 
And then there is wire. I have only worked with wire once. Way back in my senior year in high school. I took an art class. In wire. A wire class. And I created a dancer. I love this dancer that I made. I love the line of her back and her leg held up high behind her. She captures the movement of dance. I am really proud that I made her. And surprised, too. Like painting, who knew…
 
And I sew. As in on a machine. And by hand, too. Quite often by hand. I am a lazy sewer (Not to be confused with a city’s plumbing system). I do not start from scratch. I find clothing I love but not quite. Fabric that is in a dress that would make a good shirt. A coat that is not quite right but can be. A pair of suede boots that need a zipper but come without. And I pull them all apart and make something new. 
 
I work really hard on these items. So maybe not a lazy sewer (Perhaps I should use “sewist”?). Though I am a messy sewer. The outsides of my outfits are beautiful.  The insides, not so much. I think this is often because I sew these items on myself. I fit them on myself in front of the mirror and then sew them, standing right there. So, they will fit exactly right. The insides are messy—with tucks and pleats and extra stitching. But the outsides sit smooth and fit just so. (This is definitely a life metaphor I will use in the future!) 
 
*Painting class with the amazing Robin Schwartzburd

​I had a conversation with a dear friend the other day. This friend who is also a guide for me as she walks me through a constant exploration and deconstruction of the internal belief systems that no longer serve me.  
 
And on this day, the roles were reversed and I was blessed to be able to show up for her in the process of dismantling her own stories and patterns to find the truth inside.
 
The conversation centered around when we speak and why we speak and if what we say is helpful or harmful—for ourselves and for those we share our words with.
 
And this got me thinking, as everything gets me thinking these days, about the big questions that live here. Like, when is sharing our thoughts and feelings a benefit and when is it a coping mechanism that keeps us from our inner truth? Like, when do we speak in honor of our higher self and when do we use our words to deflect from our pain and seek to control? When are we showing up authentically and when are we merely manifesting our fears camouflaged as communication?  
 
Let me digress. I have a witness that sits on my shoulder. I have written about her before. She has wings like a fairy and she is very quick. She is my all knowing inner voice that keeps me from harm’s way and most of the time I can hear her before my thoughts fully form in my mind that are oh so not the right way to go. This is how quick she is. But with this….
 
With this communication piece of when to talk and when to truly keep my mouth shut, I cannot hear a fucking thing she says. I know she’s talking (she’s always talking) because she does not desert me. But my internal mind dialog is so much louder, and also really smart and quite manipulative, and most of the time convinces me that I am heading in the right direction, only to open my mouth and speak and shortly realize, fuck me, I did it again. I bypassed my discomfort and believed my mind’s story that this is a good idea.
 
And then I have to sit in the discomfort of this place I created. Or try to fix it with even more words while my witness is flapping her wings and stamping her feet and yelling in my ear. She is mad. And she is always compassionate. And she knows I’ll eventually heed her advice.
 
I hope that this is soon. That the breakthrough to understanding the trauma response that is this pattern happens in the next instant that I am faced with this desire.  And that my mind will quiet for just a nano-second of a moment so that I am able to hear my fairy witness words.
 
Until then, I will try and forgive myself for my mishandling and for the misunderstandings that occur from speaking at times where I say too much.