Several years ago, I participated in an intuitive painting workshop that pushed all my buttons and set my insecurities ringing. After a great deal of frustration and tears, I made a breakthrough ... not particularly in the quality of my art, but in the way I thought about it and myself.
It prompted the following poem:
Begin Again
I stand at an expanse of white paper.
Fears rise like a rush of ravens cawing
my inadequacies to an indifferent world.
“Begin!” I cry above their screechings.
I throw paint — fuchsia, chartreuse, deep purple.
Hope for a miracle slowly sinks into gloom
as the Muse rejects my careless offering.
“Begin again!” she commands.
I craft a lofty scene filled with symbol and sign.
Color and context weave an eye-pleasing cry
for approval and recognition that does not come.
“Begin again,” the Muse repeats.
I wildly cover the space with scribble and daub.
Then, lost on the page, I stand frozen in fear,
a hollow husk with no place to hide.
“Begin again,” she whispers.
I stand — waiting, listening, attending.
A feeling guides me to a land timeless and unplanned.
Brush, color and hand create in unjudged harmony.
I am awake, alive, vision vibrating through me.
Softly the Muse just repeats, “Begin again.”
No comments:
Post a Comment