An Inauthentic Life

I recently started an ecourse with Kelly Rae Roberts. Her suggestion was to journal about our fears as a way of removing the blocks to our authentic creative self. Before I even had a chance to read her inspiring words I journaled this post while on vacation in PA.
5.30.2010
At 61, the whispers I've heard my whole life have turned to screams. All through life I've ignored their message because I've been in pursuit of money. Whatever I had to do to earn the dime, the quarter, the dollar, the hundreds of dollars at craft fairs, auctions, home shows, and yard sales. The money, always and in all ways it's been about the money.
First I had a father who wouldn't give me a dime that wasn't earned in some way. Then it was the husband who dragged me from one dream to another always depending on me to fill the gaps and stem the flow of cancellations, shut-offs and shortfalls with whatever art form I was involved with at the time. At no time could I afford to listen to those quiet whispers that told me to express myself creatively whether or not it brought in the money.
That's not to say that I haven't lived a creative life. I have most definitely been creative. For over 40 years I have found inspiration in many places and expressed it in a myriad of ways, all of which have brought me moderate fame and some money. BUT...all of the creativity that I have expressed has been 'borrowed' from someone else. At no time has it been authentic.
At no time has that little voice said "Oh yes, Carolyn, yes! This is what you were meant to do!" But wait...that little voice just whispered that's untrue. One time, oh yes, one time it was all about me. My authentic self was given free rein that summer of my 14th year when it was all about my love of sewing. I think of it as the summer of the Singer, the Barbie and Jake's Fabrics. Then, oh, then it was truly me being expressed through needle, thread and fiber. After that intense three months I continued on through high school with sewing and designing my own clothes. I've often wondered what might have happened when I told my parents I wanted to attend F.I.T. in NYC. What if they had said yes instead of an emphatic, NO! Would those whispers have become my authentic voice. Would I really have become the designer I longed to become? And now, 43 years later does it really matter?
I've done everything that others only dream of doing but it has always been me mimicking some other artist's work because it sold well and brought in the much needed money. But now when I listen closely the whispers still persist. Louder now because time is no longer a luxury. And they are saying ..."hurry, hurry...take the time to find your voice before it is silenced forever."

9/11 Seven years and one day after

Yesterday was difficult. Seven years ago and still the wounds are raw. Although I am not a NYC resident I’m 30 miles as the crow flies from ground zero. And I remember. I remember the moment I first heard that a plane had hit the North Tower. My husband, his voice strained called and said, turn on the TV, a plane just hit the North Tower. No need for me to ask what tower, the Twin Towers had been a part of my view of the NY skyline forever. And then his voice saying, “this is no accident, look out at the sky”.


I did just as he asked. I walked out my front door and looked up at a sky that was so blue it hurt to look at it: a perfect, crystal blue sky that is so rarely seen along the Jersey Shore. In that moment of inattention, I missed the second plane colliding. But the screams of my children still inside were reason enough to rush back inside to see the South Tower engulfed in flames and black smoke. For hours we clung to the TV hoping against hope that somehow this nightmare would end differently.


Hundreds of books, movies, documentaries and magazine articles have been written about that day of national tragedy. CNN’s timeline is the best minute-by-minute capture of that tragic day: http://archives.cnn.com/2001/US/09/11/chronology.attack/index.html


What I share is the view of someone on the fringes of the eye of that firestorm. Here then are the snapshots from my memory of September 11, 2001


· Doctor’s appointment at 1 pm. Dr. cuts it short; he’s on his way to Riverview Hospital just 12 minutes away to triage the injured who will be brought in by boat. In those moments we are still hopeful that he would be needed. No boat ever arrived with survivors.

· Driving up the shore road towards Atlantic Highlands watching the black plume of smoke drifting like a huge python along the horizon. Black smoke from the funeral pyre of thousands of innocents.

· Nearing the Highlands and having to detour on road after road to find a way to climb the hills and see the NYC skyline.

· Finding a huge section of land roped off and guards silently inviting us in to park.

· Silence as we leave the car and start our climb upwards toward the high lands through familiar streets suddenly unfamiliar in their mourning.

· Silence of the people coming down the hills, tears streaming from eyes both young and old.

· Silence at the zenith where we join hundreds lined up along the ridge watching across the bay at the black smoke rising from a suddenly unfamiliar skyline.

· Silence; prayers; whispers; tears; soft sobbing as we make our way back down the streets to our car. Patience as the line of cars await to fill spots as they empty.

· Silence in the empty streets; empty stores; closed malls.

· Silence as we finally locate a restaurant still open and are quietly shown to a table facing the TV.

· Silence; whispers; tears as we watch the telecasters grimly recounting the events of the last seven hours.

· Silence as we drive back towards home and stop at a convenience store to purchase editions of newspapers with screaming headlines.

· And finally the silence of that blinding crystal blue sky. No planes flying, just silence and tears and a blue, blue sky that we East Coasters now refer to as a 911 sky.