If I could do anything, no limits, I would begin by writing a book. A raw book about the details, it would be filled with stories that I would allow myself to share. Without any expectations, even if no one read it, I would tumble onto the pages and be vulnerable. No filter, the veil between would disappear and the words would thread together into a mighty package of all facets of experience. It would be therapy to let the past, present and futures wind themselves together. Connections made on the page and with or without judgment, I would silence the opinions of others to finally hear my own. It would a book that simply allows me a space to be. Once it was out there on the page, screaming back at me, I would love it. The courage it takes to be completely raw when I have tried to so hard to remain contained. To keep the pieces together when all they want to do is fall apart.
If I could do something else, no limits, I would create all sorts of art. I would build with clay, push my hands into mediums and pull out shapes. I would spend time on mandalas that would take up walls, each line adding to the splendid detail until that wall created a vibration that everyone would feel when they were near it. I would build with nature and use the magic of decay in huge glass tubes to capture beauty. Simple expressions but with all my time focused on these would be extensions of my thoughts, allowing them out, sharing continually. I wouldn’t restrict my inner child.