Something has been weighing heavily on my heart. Well, several things, actually, but I don't share everything. Public forum, you know.
Several posts ago, I was upset. I was venting. I was ranting a bit.
Because I do not want to be a hunter. (My fervor over this is something to be discussed at a later date) But that isn't what is bothering me.
Here's the thing.
Growing up, art was considered something wonderful. To be an artist was one of the greatest joys and compliments. It meant that you saw the world in a way that is both different and beautiful. It was not about painting so much as it was an open minded philosophy.
Now, I live with a person for whom the word artist is almost an insult. To him it means that you are flighty. Good for little more than decorating. Concerned about little more than flowers. One without logic.
I have allowed this thought process to poison me against who I really am. To the point that I denied something about myself that I once fought so hard to have recognized by someone I respect as an artist. For this I am ashamed.
I allowed someone to make me feel bad about what and who I am because it doesn't fit into his view of how people should act, behave, think. And although I respect this person in so many ways, he doesn't always act the way I think people should, but I try to accept that of him. It's not up to me to try and make a change.
It IS up to me to hold onto the things that I believe to be true. And Artist, as a label, IS NOT an insult. It means you see beauty in the world. It means that you make an effort to add to it whether by painting and drawing or creating an intricate hair braid. It means that you make a concious effort to affect the emotions of yourself and others. It means whatever you think it means too.
I feel so much better.