Let me play out a scene. After nights of chiseling at a piece –be it photography, art, music, play dough, (a relationship) writing, whatever– there sometimes comes a point when it begins to sing. If this happens, I find myself filling up with anxious joy "this is working, its really working! It just, it feels so right and so good." After a few more hours working to wax it up and prep it for exposure, the exciting and terrifying moment arrives. Time to bless that little piece and gingerly placing it in a basket to float out into the world...
You watch as your baby is met with nothing but a side-glance and a blink. It's the silence that gets to me. That is what cripples me sometimes, strangely enough I think that is what fuels me too. "What!?!? this isn't the coolest thing you've ever seen? How do you not feel how amazing this is? Why do you not?" And then I rack my brain and my heart begins to overflow with "What am I missing, what can I improve? Am I still proud of my creation? Even if no one else likes it?"
And I dont know why, but normally I pick up the pencil and start again. I find joy in moving places I guess. It's not necessarily getting there, but it's the knowing I am going somewhere that makes me happy.
