Have you ever come across this lump of formless despair, and thought to yourself, “I can make something out of this?”
Have you ever gotten out your chisel, your hammer, your palettes and paints and brushes and whatnot, and set about the work of trying to make something inspired out of something others see as useless?
You see it there on the floor, and you get down to its level.
You wrestle with it, twisting it and stretching it to try to make it give itself over to your intentions for it. But it resists. It just keeps snapping back to something not quite right. Not quite good enough.
So you try a different tactic.
You crawl through it on your knees, thinking that you just need to immerse yourself in it. If you go in deep enough, if you let it all over you, if you bathe in it, surely it will see you as a friend and kindly comply.
Yet still it insists on being not quite right.
Now you are determined to beat this thing. You start banging at it. If it won’t give itself to your vision willingly, you’ll force it into place. You’ll make it give you the things you were told you needed to be okay. You will make greatness out of it or die trying.
Time goes by as you keep at it, and though it is dented, you are the one who is now sore.
You realize this isn’t working. Maybe your mistake is being so adversarial. You try to negotiate with it.
You stroke it with your prettiest colored paints using your softest brushes. You cover it in yellows and magentas and bright greens, all the colors of the joy you wish it was. You smile at it and say pretty things to it.
Yet there it still lies on the floor, this meaningless clump of nothingness soaked in rainbow lies.
You consider giving up, surrendering to the nothingness, the meaninglessness, the despair. But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Don’t you have a responsibility to make something out of this mess you were given? What kind of person would you be if you were so easily defeated?
Your mind spins, trying to come up with some new tactic.
What do you have to do to get it to conform? What does it take to get it to be pretty and sweet and happy like you were told a thing is supposed to be if it will be loved, if it will be accepted, if it will be allowed to remain in the village and not cast out?
This gives you an idea. You realize you have one last chance. You can call for reinforcements.
There are those you know who always seem to be getting it right. In fact, they are the ones always reminding you of just how wrong you’re getting it. Maybe you can appeal to them for their help and they will come and know how to get things into shape.
You make the request. They agree to come and take a look at this mess of yours. They stand there staring down on it, and then staring down on you kneeling beside it expectantly. They look around at all the mess you made trying to do something with it.
They frown and shake their heads in dismay. This work is hopeless in their eyes. Too far from the mark to be saved. They silently walk away.
The nature of your isolation sinks into you. You realize that you are truly alone in this creative work. Alone, and out of ideas.
You throw the brushes.
You throw the paints.
You take the chisels and hammers and start smashing things. You scream, and cry, and break whatever is breakable.
Until a mirror smashes, shards of glass all over the floor, and there is nothing else left to break.
You fall to the floor and can’t seem to find the energy to get back up. So now there is this lump of a mess and this room of a mess, and you lying in the middle of it with broken glass all around you.
You fall back onto your back, helpless.
You look up at the ceiling. Then a flash of light catches your attention from the corner of your eye.
You find the energy to turn your head and see a piece of the mirror left remaining intact across from you on the floor. In it you see reflected the most unexpected thing.
It is unusual and yet somehow perfect. It is not balanced, yet somehow seems right. It is sweaty and dirty and completely unkempt, yet somehow it is beautiful. It lies there doing nothing, yet somehow its value is without measure.
It is absolutely what it needs to be, and in that moment you realize that it’s who you were all along.
Photo Source: Photgraphee.eu
Here are some of my favorite past posts:
What Would You Gift This World if You Were Dying?
Meet me in the space between breaths
Getting Started on Steemit - guide for newbies
Resteems always appreciated