My brush swish-swishes on the wooden project, dib-dabbs into the water, and swirls in new and vibrant colors. The creature in my hands is transforming slowly. First one coat of paint, then another. Details here and there. At any given time during this journey, my art piece is anything but beautiful. But I don’t mind. That’s part of the work and I smile as I dream about what it will yet become.
Even though I don’t know what it will become. I don’t start knowing exactly how it will look. Colors blend. Bleed. A line here, a dot there can change the direction I thought I was going with it.
It strikes me.
How is it that I’m so gracious with my painted art, but not nearly so with my writing?
The tappity tap of my fingers beat an uneven rhythm. The story unfolds. It’s rough. I’m discouraged. I close my laptop and decide to wait for my next moment of silence and hope it coincides with a moment of inspiration.
Just like a painting, a story never begins beautiful. The course of it’s adventure changes as the author adds a word here, a sound there. The story tells itself with time. Patience. It certainly can’t be rushed. It’s not supposed to be beautiful until the end.
The finishing touch completes my beautiful Tree of Peace. *sigh* I spray a delicate sealant to protect my hard work. The mess between then and now is not too far from my memory. But the beauty of this moment- holding the finished piece and knowing the journey it took- makes it priceless.
My writing deserves the same. The same diligence. The same appreciation of their messy process. The same hope of their future completion. And the priceless feeling of holding something beautiful and knowing from whence it came.
A new day.
I commit to loving my writing with the same tenderness that I show my other art.
How about you?