As usual, doubts rush in. I get it all too quick, too thin, too surface bright?
In the moonlit comfort of morning,
she hears birdsong. Their full chorus
impels her to rise and write
of some place. Beauty with hills and harbor,
spires and passageway to a garden
where a female shadow
appears in its fountain beneath
a snood of vine leaves. Where the woman
is barely seen but sensed, convalescing
from sorrow, anger -- a love affair that flew
too near the sun. The faint light of it
shimmering on water, the shedding
of its moments -- dandelion dust....
and there, the idea breaks. A cup of mint
tea in hand, she turns toward the typewriter.
The tarnished keys shine with a sheet
rolled over the bar like a blank caste
wanting her signature. And what -- if she signs
her soul to resetting this scene
on paper, plotting to the end? In just weeks
it could languish in the waste basket. A corsage
of crumpled prose she never wore
long enough to dance or drink champagne. And what then?
what then? What then-- the birdsong
will sound different.____________________________________________________________
Art impels us to rise and create, to strive in our imaginative capacity to shape an experience through words, paint or music. We crave to emulate those literary and gallery masters who came before us and hungered our tongues for more. For our own application of the craft, the skill. And yet, when we take up the task, there is that terrible presence of uncertainty, invisible and spreading its shadow over our minds and confidence. Though we dare to commence a project, envision a narrative or painting in our heads, we might stop suddenly asking if its worth the effort, the let down of dislike, the depletion of energy and joy. The rise and fall of self (in that moment) invokes the beauty of being vulnerable, fragile enough to know we are delicate instruments that need tuning and care. Creativity is a fluid object we must refine and polish, not live without. And no one knew the struggle and necessity of the creative process more than Virginia Woolf. I read in her diaries how the art of writing buoyed her for hours and then the doubt would set in, prompting her to confess -- she would totally hate the it days or weeks later. Almost hate it enough to discard the entire work, contemplate abandoning her craft.
Note -- Beautiful artwork is by artist, Felix Mas