F**k it, Dragons

My friend, Monserrate, cracks me up.  In recent months, as he describes it, a window opened to this world.  He's been gazing in, enchanted, and transcribing the journey.  Recently, he wrote, "In nine months of writing, I've exercised self-restraint in my storytelling.  Today I said, F*** it.  Dragons."

That's the mantra.  I can't get enough!

Whenever I'm feeling timid or doubtful, "F*** it.  Dragons."

I keep over-explaining my life, usually to myself.  The self-critique is that it's too much, I'm too all over the place, chasing a passion for writing, a yen to be digging in soil, my love of yoga.

F*** it.  Dragons.

Kevin & I were talking about the versatility people cultivated in themselves even two generations ago.  We weren't quite so stove-piped, so specialized.  A doctor still played baseball on the weekends.  A mechanic wrote poetry.  Farmers were (I say are) philosophers.  Certainly, people today are multidimensional, but I think too many of us are apologetic.

Certainly, our efforts much have depth and sustenance.  Cultivating a sampler platter of passions leaves us superficial.  I'm allowing myself to be a Renaissance Woman, or as Kevin prefers, a Jack of all Trades.  I want to clean my home with gusto and some salsa in my steps.  I'm planting a farm in my backyard.  I plan to publish my poetry.  I teach and practice yoga to stay apart of an ancient lineage.

F*** it.  Dragons.