I was an artist’s model for a minute in undergrad. I posed for hours in my swimsuit while students stared, took stock and drew. I was scared and deeply embarrassed until I saw their work and realized that what I perceived as physical shortcomings, they saw without judgment.
They made it art.
Writing about myself is much like that: scary, exhilarating and very freeing. It’s looking at my flaws and foibles as honestly as I do my freckles, gray hair or dimples: as interesting highlights on the roadmap of an unexpected but beautiful journey.
It’s seeing what is, as it is, and letting it be.
I’m getting nearly “naked” again soon, in front of an audience. (My days of posing as an artist’s model are long over, Mom.) I’m scared to death but ready to show my emotional scars and spiritual stretch marks with no shame — to interpret them for clues, search them for lessons and find the beauty in them.
I may bomb.
But I may blow up.
(Either way, Roy Wood, Jr. promised me it will be fun.)