Fear

“Have pity on those who are fearful of taking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or an instrument, or a tool because they are afraid that someone has already done so better than they could…” (Excerpt from The Pilgrimage, Paulo Coelho)

I recently read these words and I absolutely connected to them. Often this feeling of fear and inadequacy overtakes me, stopping me from pursuing any creative outlets.

I wonder when the perfectionist in me took hold and decided that I could only go after things I was ‘good’ at. I seem to have had this feeling, this issue as far back as I could remember. I never quite learned that pursuing something - anything - of joy sometimes (oftentimes!) meant falling down along the way. That there are lessons taught from ‘failure’, particularly when failures and fears are overcome through perseverance.

As a child and young teen, I used to write solely for myself and occasionally a few creative pieces needed for school. I also dabbled in the viola, photography, and filmmaking. There was a definite point, though, when I looked around at my classmates and felt that I just did not measure up. What was the point of continuing these creative pursuits if I wasn’t going to be able to make a name for myself nor make money from them? 

Only now, 20 years later, am I starting to understand that I’ve done myself a disservice. If I enjoy doing something, I should Just Do It (Nike was right after all, who knew?)! Screw what others will think and that they are better at it than I am. That’s not the point.

My soul needs art. It doesn’t judge me – it wants me to explore and grow and be free from the constraints I place on myself. In unburdening myself of this fear, I move closer to my true self by being open to the lessons I have yet to learn.

Breeze

What is it that makes a breeze so comforting?

I rest my head on my notebook and feel the breeze tickle my hair and brush my pants against my legs. I feel the heat of the sun. I notice that in the silence, I hear crickets chirp, leaves rustle, and a faint chopping sound coming from the kitchen.

I hear the breeze first before I feel it. Almost like waves of leaves swaying, deeper and further way to closer and more urgent. It's a crescendo of sound until the very moment the breeze falls on my face. Then all becomes silent for just a moment before the symphony starts again.

I take a deep, satisfying breath when the breeze reaches me. There are hundreds of scents carried on its wings that I try to identify. I only manage to capture some of them before the feeling passes: a light sweetness from the nearby flowers; freshly baked bread - it's the brown sugar and yeast I smell; earthy brown leaves that tells me fall is coming; and something else - something clean and fresh - is that the breeze/air itself?

So going back to the question of why? It's simple. In these moments I feel. There aren't the usual to-do's running around in my head. I'm here. Now. This is what the present feels like: fresh, warm, sweet.

Portrait (revisited)

Feedback Request: Is this more effective as a poem?

He stands there.
Naked.
Raw emotions
racing behind his eyes.
Anger. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Uncertainty.
Rolling past
again
and again.
Like the spinning wheel on the Price is Right,
where it will finally land, nobody knows.

This is not a game to him, though.
You can tell by
the tightness in his jaw,
the slightly bent head,
the hands that flex
open
and close.

Somehow he looks
disheveled.
Like he's been up all night
without sleep,
even though only a couple of hours have
passed.

His shirt is un-tucked,
he's got stubble along his face,
and his skin looks dull.
He seems
shorter
than his usual six feet and as though
he's lost
weight.
Is it the stoop of his shoulders that makes me think this?

He looks so
alone.
I want to be
there
for him.

I hope he lets me into his
abyss
so that I can help him
find his way
out.

He
drops
the papers
in his lap
and
shakes
his head.
Mutters to himself.
Picks up the papers and reads through them again.

His past
and
his future
are
in his hands.