A lot of dead skin around here.  It comes in so many forms.  Things that when purchased were alive and clear to me, they have lived their life.  Now they have died.

I am getting rid of so many things.  Things I found in stores, things that were given to me, things I picked up for a steal at a garage sale.  I just throw them all in a pile.  A useless pile.

It feels good actually.  Yesterday I spent the day in our master closet.  I found myself going through my clothes (again) and weeding them down more and more.  A lot of my clothes, although still my size, don’t seem to fit me right anymore.  They don’t seem to match the ideal I have in my head.

My bold colors, my blacks, dress pants, old dresses, I am just taking all of them out. I have worn them, now I am done.

The pile outside our bedroom gets higher and higher.  While my belongings, that which I still have a connection to, or feel good about, is growing ever smaller.

I found old purses filled with memories from my trip to Boston and New York.  The pilgrimage I made to pursue my artistic dream.  I quickly grabbed all those tickets, receipts, conference passes, and held them to me.  I then shoved all of this into a little bag.  A stitched picture of a young woman is on this tiny bag.  She is sitting at a table drinking a cup of coffee and holding a book.  The inscription below reads, “Book Worm.”

A true book worm is what I am becoming.  Perhaps more of a book butterfly.  Books and writing are defining my life.  This accepted definition will no doubt come with different clothing and different “stuff”.   Soft browns and faded pinks.  Everything slightly weathered and loved.  I see flowers in my hair and worn boots.  A delicate and well worn shabbiness and openness.

I like it.