I woke up and I changed.

I woke up and I changed.

I remember when I hated tomatoes. I took them off of every single thing that I ate without fail. Now, I have tomato themed dinner parties littered with tomato martinis, 3 versions of tomato pasta and a side of tomato toast.

I only wore neutral makeup — it was chic. it was understated. But I woke up and had a brand new deep craving for green eyeshadow, for bold eyeliner for a pop of the unexpected. So…I dragged my finger across a Pat McGrath palette and. I. changed. my. mind.

I woke up one morning and I decided I am writer. Im an editor.

I woke up when I was 5 and decided I am an artist.

I woke up and I changed. I woke up and I changed. I woke up and I changed.

I woke up and I had grown space for more.

My entire life I criticized my own excitement. I hated that the fact that I wanted to do everything which in turn meant that I couldn’t do anything right

but that was never true, was it.

In the middle of the street in Manhattan lugging a huge blank canvas a stranger approached me “are you an artist?” I let out a laugh “ah no I just am getting back into it” in my brain I gawk at my awkwardness and wonder why my jerk reaction was to say no. My jerk reaction was to diminish. because who am I to call myself an artist?

I picked up a paint brush at age 5, money that we did not have was sacrificed for me to experience art camp. I sat under dim light in my bunk bed and drew models in funky eccentric polka dotted skirts and heels. I took any art class I could get into in high school and college. Drawing and painting and pottery and photography and graphic design. I played the violin for six years. I minored in studio art with a specificity in oil painting. I took 3 hour courses on color theory — learned how to create any color imaginable on utter intuition and wrote a 300 page paper breaking down a pair of jeans down to the seams.

I close my eyes and think of color combinations and product design, leather and knits. I think of colors of foods and textures, sounds of heels hitting the pavement, patterns and interiors. I close my eyes and cannot wait to open them to create.

Perpetually. I create.

Yet, on that street, I still couldn’t form my mouth in the shape of “yes, I am an artist”

I always have struggled to connect the act of doing with being.

I write about what I love, what I hate, what I have witnessed, my thoughts, my ideas, my opinions but..I am not a writer.

I remind myself and if necessary I remind you : Let’s be clear: The only perquisite to being a writer IS writing.

This means we can be many things at once. We can be something tomorrow that we were not today..solely by choosing to pick it up. By choosing that we suddenly enjoy it.

Wake up and decide that even though yesterday you hated scarfs. today you love them and wear 5 at a time.

I wonder what I will like tomorrow. I wonder what I will be tomorrow. I wonder what I will create tomorrow.

I am rejecting the notion that change dilutes identity.

Changing is so beautiful and changing is so whimsical .

“I thought you hated those?” “Yes, but I woke up and I changed”