a Creative's Continual Yearning

Updated: Jan 2







I try to type but my fingers feel too heavy, like three-hundred pound cement blocks are strapped to my hands. Each word is draining; am I strong enough to withstand this? Some days, when the rain is pouring outside my window, tea steaming on my desk, the computer screen empty and the cursor blinking expectantly, I wonder if life would be easier, were I not made this way.


Were I not made creative, did I not feel a constant calling to write, to make, to bring something new into the world, who would I be? I can't even comprehend that version of myself; she is too far away from who I am, and who I am becoming.


Life is empty for a creator who isn't creating. I think that's why God never stops crafting new, beautiful humans, who each day curl up in the womb unready, unknowing what awaits them in this messy life. Some say the world has more than enough people already, but God knows better. Every day God brings 385,000 more works of art into this world - we are both His burden and His masterpiece. As a creator, I could never measure up to the Lord, my ultimate inspiration and the ultimate Creator, but in a small way, I can sympathize.


What I write is my burden and my masterpiece. It is my burden because, no matter how hard I try, nothing I write will ever be perfect. It is impossible. The standards I hold myself to are too high; I'm not God. But because I draw from Him, because He is the one I look to, I always yearn for something better. We are born into a broken, imperfect world. Which is why nothing ever seems like enough. Because nothing in this world is enough to satisfy our longing. Only God. Still, something in me expects MY own acts of creation to compare to His Creation. Which leaves me consistently disappointed when I fail, as is inevitable.


So the bricks strapped to my wrists weigh heavier and heavier. Some days I'm too tired of trying and I write nothing at all. Why bother? I say to myself. I'll never be what I want to be. I might as well forget the dream. I want to learn piano, to make the songs that swim in my head a reality. I know, though, that I won't be a perfect pianist at first try, or ever, so I've never touched the piano keys.


But God continues to ask me to write, continues to plant songs in my head, to give me music and books that move me and shake and mold me. My whole life writing has been the one thing that has never faded. Hobbies come and go; passions and pursuits gradually vanish into the background. Writing has been my biggest dream since I learned my ABCs. There's gotta be a reason for that. Even if some days writing feels harder than bench-pressing five hundred pounds, I don't want to give up on it.


I could've been born a natural scientist or gifted in business. God might've used me as a teacher or a zookeeper or a computer engineer - who knows? I would probably make more money in computer science. My greatest passion would probably not also cause me pain. I wouldn't feel inadequate, plugging in lines of code. If the code is right, the code is right. But writing, ironically, is never totally "right".


Yet, that's the gift of creating. You will spend your whole life striving to merely capture a piece of the Perfect Story, the Perfect Song, the Perfect Poem that you know is out there somewhere. And maybe your own little imperfect piece will move, change, and shape someone else's heart. I know I have read books and heard songs that have changed me profoundly, but their own creator thinks they're ok at best.


I wasn't made to be a computer engineer, much to my wallet's chagrin. And that's ok. I was made to create. I was made for this life of yearning and beauty and emptiness and wonder. At the end of the day, I'm glad of it. I'm ready to face the challenges that await and never give up. So today I'm going to sit at the piano. It will not be pretty. I'm trying not to care. Nothing will ever happen if I don't give it a shot.


Oh, you thought the post was over? No way! Watch out, I'm throwing a poem at you. Smack!



"Colors"


They try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Red, my mind is an emotional cataclysm

A red dwarf star going supernova

Or a front-line, blood-baked battle

A red, red war for victory, for sanity

For freedom of soul


When they think in black and white

They do not understand

My bright, bright red


So they try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Orange, my mind holds joy like a flower

A delicate tulip growing from the soil

Or a sunny, sandy ocean day

An orange, orange sun glowing happily

in my free-flying heart


When they think in black and white

They do not understand

My wild, wild orange


So they try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Yellow, my mind wants to soar to the stars

Follow the north on an endless journey

Or a softly feathered canary

A yellow, yellow bird doing nothing but singing

No obligations but music and love


When they think in black and white

They do not understand

My spirited, spirited yellow


So they try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Green, my mind is an overgrowth

A tangled, haunted forest of low swaying trees

Or a dark and glittering sea

A green, green ocean with both tempest and calm

Pitching the ships back and forth, from sorrow to joy


When they think in black and white

They do not understand

My abundant, abundant green


So they try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Blue, my mind is my refuge

the quiet place where I seek out peace

Or a crystalline and pale sky

A blue, blue heaven with castles of gold

And open arms that reach out to welcome me home


When they think in black and white

They do not understand

How find solace in my mind’s

Quiet, quiet blue


So they try to fit my mind in a box

Squeeze me into their perfect mold

My splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box


Violet, my mind is my strength

The flowing cape of a warrior Queen

Or a funny feather boa

A violet, violet lipstick tube

Flaunting my strangeness for all the world to see


When they think in black and white

They do not understand


How one can be


Angry red

Freedom orange

Joyful yellow

Abundant green

Shy blue

and

Flamboyant violet


All at once


And yet,

I am what I am


I refuse to put my mind in a box

They won’t squeeze me into their perfect mold

How I love my

Splattered, scattered, messed up mind

Overflowing, like rainbow paint

Bursting, busting

from the box





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