After my trip from Mexico, I feel like a switch has been flipped in my skull.
So many of my previous blogs were a journey for validation. I was seeking approval for my writing self. I yearned for validation from some entity, ethereal or corporeal, to let me know that yes, in fact, I am a writer and a poet.
But, something happened in Mexico. Not a seminal moment that I can pinpoint like a properly lit, music imbued movie scene, but a gradual and definite understanding of my unique perspective and place in the world.
I wish I could romanticize it and say it happened while I was climbing one of the temples at the ancient Mayan site of Uxmal. But, it didn’t. Nor did it occur while I perused the awesome, towering crucifixes in the churches.
It happened with a subtle switch.
I am a writer. I am a poet. I think like one and, unfortunately, I feel like one.
And I don’t need some shaman, priest, literary god, or cousin, friend, or lover to proclaim it either.
I am exactly who I say I am. I don’t need to prove it to anyone anymore…including myself.