Roll up a blunt and I'ma face It

i admit, “don’t look at me while i learn” hits hard… but why is that so? when i was 7 years old i sang along to songs i had yet to fully learn by bumbling through sounds that half-resembled what i thought i heard, at full volume.

at 6, i would practice ballet moves–in which i had no instruction–outside the theater after a professional performance, in full view of the public.

at 5, i asked my teacher so many questions that she affectionately called me Bug–because i was always bugging her with my endless inquiry. i loved the nickname.

at 14, i was afraid to practice a song in my own room with no one home because, “what if my voice cracks? what if i can’t hit that note?”

at 15 i was afraid to dance in the garage with no one around because–i mean how embarrassing would it be to get the move wrong?

at 16, i forgo asking questions in class because god forbid i not understand.

what is this? “the shame of beginning”, we say. but not inherent, never was it inherent. the child loves to begin! they love making the silly mistake. the world tells us the mistake is fatal, or worse, shameful. what a tragedy. the world strangles our joy of beginning and when we’re old enough we add our own hands to the neck.

but the truth is we begin everyday and we are wrong and we’re dumb and we make silly mistakes and at the end of it all we are still the brilliant learners we’ve always been. there is no shame. it’s alright. i don’t know how to properly express that i wish upon everyone who’s reblogged this post to realize the shame is in our hands wrapped around the neck. we can let go. allow the self-kindess of your heart to soothe the bruises.