I can paint a picture with pen or the tap of keys. I can trace my brain from translucent lines, titling it a memory. Give me color. Give me emotion. Give me greens and blues and the yellows of the wheat fields and that is when the page will soar. . .when I'm wide eyed and accept the words that follow. There are colors that don't even have a name, some so deep, so dark they blend in with the purples of the heart. What if I spend my days searching? Will I call myself a writer then?
I watch my children write. They draw hieroglyphics, pictures of happy suns and flowers with petals as long as the page is wide. They beg me for a pen and their fingers smile as they trace thoughts, those images that dance around. Everything they draw is love, is joy, is good enough. My four year old thinks that the perfect cloud hangs on a page drawn with black ink. The flowers in her mind are pink but when She writes them down she tells me,
"They look different Mommy."
A moment later she decides she doesn't care and she starts to draw more black flowers with un-rounded edges.
Lately, I start to write and it comes softly where is use to overflow....tired or dark or different from what I had in mind. Instead of accepting it, I run away. Isn't this the thing...to write and write and see where it takes me, see what it teaches me. To open up heart and name those colors.
My edges aren't always round when they should be but that is life and that is me. I am done with the self loathing. I could spend a hundred years claiming "not good enough" and another hundred trying to be, but that is a waste of color and that is when I stop writing
and I never want to stop writing .
i'll paint you a memory
summer was sweet
it blew kisses on the breeze
the air was thick and moist
and i remember
there was a girl there
she was little,
dark hair and eyes that matched
she bent over and picked up a blade,
grass from a field in Montana
the caterpillar hung on, clutching tighter
and she twirled it over in her hands
and when she puckered up to kiss it
i yelled, "NO!"
and she jumped,
smiles turned to laughter
and the caterpillar breathed . . .
*When i was 12, we took a vacation and stared at fields. As Dad talked about Little Bighorn and 7th Calvary charging, I saved my baby sister from kissing a caterpillar.
Linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon for Imperfect Prose on Thursdays