I pulled out my art supplies yesterday to paint Christmas cards. It was frustrating. Hard. My creative muscles felt stiff from disuse (it’s been three long years since I played with alcohol inks), and my mind was abuzz with the “critter’s” nattering: This is amateur hour. These have no depth. No one would want these.
It’s easy to confuse the voice of a mentor with the hiss of the critter when you’re wading through a pool of self-doubt. In my vulnerability, I’d rather the truth didn’t come wrapped in words that pierce the ego, but the truth remains: I was trying to force a medium that demands surrender.
I love alcohol inks because they are untameable. They flow where they will, forcing an acceptance of the magic in the unexpected. The challenge is that when I am working with them, I must give up control. But, when I am feeling vulnerable in the ‘trying’ of something new or am simply out of practice, I use “Mr. Control” as a shield. It’s a vicious circle: self-doubt colluding with a need for order, trying to convince me I don’t have what it takes to be an artist, a writer, or a caregiver.
The truth, however unvarnished, was that those first attempts were just practice. They weren’t “it.” Like a streak of sunshine breaking through an ominous sky, once I accepted that, once I stopped justifying the “okay” and looked at the “trash” for what it was, I could see the truth – those first attempts were my Courage Rose gathering strength to break into full, bountiful blossom.
Armed with its beauty warming my entire being, the voice of wisdom within rises up and whispers lovingly, “It is in the doing we find the courage to keep doing.”
Time to put ink to paper and try again. Time to stop trying to control the process, but to dance with it.
And time to accept, I am doing the best I can and my best is good enough.
I’m beginning again today.
This is POem 121 in my quest to write a love poem a day for a year.
The Beauty in Surrender by Louise Gallagher One drop of Dandelion Yellow One drop of Chilli Red One drop of alcohol Chaos erupts The shiny surface of the page explodes a riot of coloured blossoms, spreading, growing unfurling to their own song oblivious to my demands to dance to my tune Madly, I try to tame their movement as if my will could stop the inevitable spread Defiant, the colours resist yellow merges with red brown streaks across the glossy page I want to tether it, to pin it down to the page dictate the curve of the petal, command the depth of the hue. Resistance meets me where I’m at. The ink knows. I am still learning: Beauty is born in the surrender, not the siege. Dandelion Yellow pushes Chilli Red aside a filigreed web of unexpected beauty exposed my Courage Rose revealed in the soil of "not enough," Truth becomes visible: the "trash" was just the garden bed. Today, I lay down the brush of control. I will let the light bleed where it must. I will begin again with hands that are open, and a heart that is wide.
I like that poem