White space is where creativity can breathe and come to life within us.
I wrote this piece a year ago as I was emerging from a long, dark winter of pain into the spring of new beauty and life . . .
I have a new journal.
I fill it with words that flow lazily from a high mountain stream. It’s a trickling of water really, looking for a path to forge as it wanders along cracks in the hardened soil and around the strewn pebbles of my abandoned creative self.
I write in
hoping the flowing curves and hidden joy of simulating swoopy “a’s” and “g’s” on the screen will help the words find their own curves and rhythm.
Fearfully, timidly, clutching my tattered memory of a yellow Easter bonnet with long flowing white ribbons that danced and fluttered joyfully in the spring breeze, I open the latched and rusted iron gate of my creativity.
Opened to the infinite, vulnerable in the newness of this life, I am young again, and I struggle to breathe the air here.
I no longer know who I am. I don’t know where the words come from, how they will shape themselves, or where they will go.
I’m too old for this nonsense, a distant school teacher voice scolds me for trading “serious work” for play.
The little girl with the bonnet turns away in shame . . . ribbons drag in the mud.
Turn back and play. This is right, this is life, the voice of the yellow bonnet whispers.
But my bonnet’s dirty now, I protest.
Turn back and look again.
I obey . . . not with faith, still in fear.
The ribbons dance again. Joy can breathe again.
I write my name with a stick in the dust:
This is where I must start.
I’ll learn to breathe here drawing curvy lines in the sand until the rhythm is just right.