I'm coming to find that a creative act does not always have to end up looking like a painting, a piece of music, or a perfectly choreographed dance. The time, energy, work and amount of heart invested is just the same, but the end product is something that cannot — and will not — ever be contained between the palms of my hands.
Slowly, I begin to see what is being created. It is a collection of experiences and opportunities to be fully in the world, in who we are.
I do the work. And when the time comes, I allow the work and inspiration of the moment to move through me and through the steady, trusting, gentle souls who have graciously come along for the ride.
These are imperfect works of who I am, what I have learned and have yet to learn, and what I have in me to gift to a willing recipient.
I cannot, and will not, hold these in my hands. I grow them in my heart until the time comes, and when it comes, there is nothing to do but close my eyes and unlock the gates, trusting that what is waiting there is what is needed now.
But you have failed too once. You have made mistakes. I can only hope that, in my faltering, you catch a glimpse of yourself and know that you, too, can risk your heart. You, too, can bare your soul. You, too, can make mistakes and still be ok. You, too, can create.
These imperfect works of art make me as excited as they do nervous. If I could reach out my hand and touch them, I know I would feel their warm, steady hands meeting mine in a reassuring reminder that they will be, and that they will be as they are, not exactly as I wish them to be.
They are no longer mine.
Their beauty and magic can only truly come alive when they are held in the hearts of others.
I know that I am making these imperfect works of art for you.