Life. We’ve heard it before, it’s not about the finished work, but the individual strokes that created the finished piece. That doesn’t make things easier to swallow. Because sometimes you have to see the finished piece, so you know where to lay that first drop of ink.
There has to be a vision, somewhere, somehow, to get you moving in the first place. Especially when life locks your soul up in a cold, dark basement. It’s the chicken and the egg. What comes first? Movement or direction? Doing or being inspired? Some days it’s neither, some days it’s both. Like moving a huge piece of furniture, where you ease it forward, moving one corner forward at a time. Doing. Living. Doing. Living.
And it’s all so exhausting. The pushing and the pulling. The constant reminders of mortality. The mistakes. The blemishes. The still having so much to learn, and do. And the overwhelming need to have a fresh, new, blank canvas to start all over again. Because if I only knew what I know now…
Had I known…
Perhaps I wouldn’t have cared so much about the masterpiece.
Maybe I would have held onto those scrap pieces of time. Those scribbles in my life…
Maybe I wouldn’t have left so many blank pages lying around.
Yet it’s the masterpiece that drags me back up off the floor. The need to get somewhere better than here, better than the now. My blessing and my curse. The delicate lines drawn by the fragile lives, and tear stained water colors. The need to make this life beautiful once again, not in spite of the hurt, but because of it. To always remember.
And to accept the here, right now, is where I’m supposed to be. Today is my Masterpiece.
Coffee and Spellcheck 