A long-awaited dialogue

Going through some old notebooks and found these words- still very much applicable to my life currently.

Lately, my heart has been full, brimming with baby smiles, toddler giggles, transitions and tears. Yet, while experiencing tremendous joy amidst chaos and navigating heightened emotions, a part of my soul has remained empty. It has called out to me on many occasions- I have longed to be embraced in a creative flurry, swallowed up by moments where I feel compelled to create and time stands still. At times, I desperately needed to express the weight and load through immortal paint, rather than fleeting tears. But I did not. Not once. I sought sleep and cleanliness, whenever possible, ignoring the urge and enduring the emptiness a bit longer.

But, today, I was reunited with my long, lost friend. This brush and I quietly and quickly conversed while the smiles and giggles slept. Treading as if around sleeping dragons, we silently and carefully danced, as if we had just danced yesterday. With familiar strokes long and simple, our dialogue began- about our long departure, the emptiness being filled, and our bright future. Though our time together was brief, the brush and I made anew our promise to keep in touch and to speak often. Today, the cleanliness may be absent, but my soul is full.

A Meaningful Mistake

Faith

Charcoal on Paper 

18" x 24"

There it was. Almost Completed.

I labored long and hard over this one. It was so simple, and yet, I felt this enormous burden. I wanted to do it right. Up until this point, I had been hesitant to portray the Savior. The only reason I took this on was at the sincere request of my Mother, who desperately needed to show her young women that He was present in their lives.

I knew I could portray a Savior that others might like, but the Savior that I knew? That I would be happy with? That's different. What I envision before I begin a piece is always different than the end result. And, in this case, I worried that I would be sorely disappointed. 

After weeks of putting it off, for fear of making a mistake, I earnestly prayed for help. The spirit led me to models and aided in my selection of the final composition. I began with vine charcoal; very light, easily erased and easily corrected -many, many times, I might add. After several hours of work, I proceeded with a harder, more compressed charcoal; very dark, great for contrast, but difficult to completely remove, even with an eraser. It took weeks filled with late nights to get to the point of near completion in my drawing. (I only tell you all this so that you may understand the long process of creating.)

This was truly a labor of love. 

Then, my heart dropped. My stomach turned. 

One morning, after a late night, I came down the stairs. 

There it was. 

A huge, l o n g, thick dark line on my drawing. 

It crossed right through the young woman, accompanied by several small lines. I wanted to cry, but I was too stunned. My husband was making breakfast. My almost 3 year old was hiding under the table. I turned right back around and sat on the stairs for a minute in disbelief, in sadness, and in anger. Then, I felt little arms hug my leg. "I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm sorry I drew on your picture." Sweet boy. I was upset, but I couldn't be mad at him! He just wanted to help! And in my fatigue the night before, I left my charcoals easily accessible on my easel. We exchanged long hugs and kisses and that was that.

That afternoon, I faced this new challenge with a big sigh and a lumpy eraser. 

I set to work.

I carefully erased around the completed areas. I tried to salvage what was there, but it was impossible. I could not get rid of that monstrous line without sacrificing parts of the drawing. 

And so, I did what had to be done. 

I erased that near-perfect eye. I erased her cheek. I erased HARD. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, how tired my arm was, how much I cleaned my eraser, I COULD NOT get rid of that cursed line!

I did my very best to lighten it, to re-work the area so it wasn't noticeable. And within the next week, I FINALLY completed the drawing, line and all. 

I had a lot of time to think while completing this drawing. While the line was a pain, I grew to appreciate this misfortunate. I love the enhanced meaning it brought to my piece. 

I've made mistakes, as I'm sure many of us have. I regret times of unkindness, pride, dishonesty, impatience and disobedience. These mistakes have sometimes been like a big, dark, haunting line.

 Try as hard as we can to completely erase them ourselves, we can't. 

But, the Savior can. 

He paid the ultimate price so that we can rid ourselves of those lines dominating our lives. Just like I needed to sacrifice parts of my drawing to save it, we may need to make sacrifices to be clean again. I know that if we repent and have faith in Him, through His atonement, those lines will disappear and we can be whole again. We need not despair, for He is there. And through Him, we can feel true joy and peace.

In Time

I peek beyond the edge of the frame resting in front of me. Art collectors are gathered together observing the works in my creator's studio. Brilliant splashes of color contained within frames line the walls; powerful, light-filled drawings seem to support the windows above them, while both great and small lifelike sculptures fill the room's empty spaces. With excitement and admiration, these collectors praise His work.

I watch eagerly behind the frame. I yearn for their love and appraisal of my own unique traits.

As I hoped, He gently grabs my corners and sets me on His easel. Their lack of words and excitement pains my soul. Questions arise concerning my incomplete appearance. He responds quietly, "It's beautiful to me." Some hear His voice, some do not. Regardless, they turn quietly and leave the studio.

He then turns to me, picks up his brush and whispers, "In time, in time."

Straight Lines

He puts His hand on top of mine. My fingers gently hold the charcoal, pressing it to the paper. He guides my hand. I follow Him and make straight lines. Releasing my hand, His trust in me prompts my hand to keep moving.

I try. I draw straight lines.

Every so often the charcoal slips between my fingers. In those moments, the drawing loses structure. Some lines are perfect, some attempt to be, while others fail.

I fall through the unfinished drawing, the black dust dirtying my clothes. The perfect lines gather together and I see people- my examples. The attempted lines shuffle together to form more figures that represent those whom I worry for- I’ve tried to care for. The failed lines slowly stumble together-I wait for the lines to take shape.

All I find is a reflection of myself.

My heart grows heavy and my breath stifled-the charcoal dust filling my lungs with increasing thickness. I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. I turn around to find myself back in front of my drawing, His hand upon mine. This time I hold an eraser. All the failed lines are gone. The drawing maintains its structure. I pick up the charcoal and with His hand upon mine, I begin again.

My Canvas

A blank, white canvas. That’s how I was born.

I breathed in rich, earth tones. My soul was filled. A sketch began that gave life and meaning to the seemingly plain ground. Foundational layers of black and white separated the shadows and the light. Light was dominant in the scene. A painted background brought attention to the sketched subjects with thick brushstrokes. The objects gained dimension as values were added. The last to appear were the small details.

Most notice the details first, classifying the painting as a “pretty picture”. They fail to see the layers and symbolism. Some acknowledge the layers, but under-appreciate the symbolism. Others critique the painting, with or without understanding the art. The patient learners give it time. Collectors and masters give it love through criticism and praise.

But the artist knows it best of all.

Whispers

Powerful whispers resonate in your heart. The heart pumps a steady rhythm, the sculptor’s beat of a chisel against stone. Ears throb as the sound vibrates steadily into your mind. The mind fills with light pouring through translucent veins of pure white marble. Eyes absorb the light until it fills your lungs with crisp air. The arms breath the air, traveling to the strong hands. Hands firmly grasp their tools and form the whispers with all the love and passion a single spirit can hold.

As each whisper was felt, each whisper was formed. Over time, your hands molded many whispers with the assistance of determination, integrity, love. Chipping off the countless hours, stood tall from marble dust, a timeless legacy.

I too, have felt these whispers.

As the whispers blossom with color through the end of my brush, I think of you. I know the whispers will not fail me. But I must move with the rhythm, light, air, and love. Singing a different song, the whispers guide me elsewhere. I do not see a legacy of marble. I hear a legacy of joy.

Rooms and Windows

The room I entered seemed brighter than the last. After countless hours of opening doors and peering into rooms, I finally approached a room that invited my entrance. It was a simple room. I felt comfortable with its sweet smell and hardwood floors, and so I remained. The air was filled with intriguing introductions, fascinating conversations, satisfied visitors, small lessons and sweet gratitude.

One day, one of the walls opposite me cracked, revealing a narrow window. Immediately, the room filled with light so refreshing you could drink it! I hadn't seen a room so full of light since a couple rooms back, where the windows were ceiling to floor and wall to wall. Drawing near to the window now, I gasped as I peered through the spotless glass. The ground outside the window was filled with tulips in all colors imaginable! The sky was a cloudy blue, and in the distance lie boats in a harbor and ice-skaters, all in once place! The window was so narrow, I felt as if someone had teased me with a whiff of homemade bread or chocolate cake, with no promise to let me taste these treats. Then, craving more, I pressed my cheek against the glass and strained my eyes only to find a much larger window staring at me from across the happy tulips.

Hoping for a taste, rather than just a whiff, I left that little window and opened the door. Running past a hallway lined with various doors of all shapes and sizes, I stopped at the one door I was sure held the promise I was searching for. I stared hungrily inside, and like the last, it welcomed my presence. The light in this room took my breath away instantly, as rays of color danced along the walls and even pranced on my toes. My body gravitated towards the window. This time, I saw much more than just the tulips and the boats. I saw grand antique buildings, hugging from side to side. I saw people smiling, laughing, and watching their children play in the cobblestone streets. It was a beautiful sight.

I remained in that room for a shorter period of time than I expected. The warm air grew chilly and the bright tulips outside the grand window began wilting. Gray clouds engulfed the blue sky, and the streets became empty. I tried to maintain my optimism, for at least I still had a window and a view. There still remained some light in the room. But I held on too tightly to that light, for one late afternoon while I slept, someone boarded up my window from the outside. I awoke to find ugly slabs of splintering wood glaring at me through the window. The light had disappeared and the air grew cold quickly.

I am leaving that room now. The promise of a new window lingers in the air. I will follow the smallest ray of light until I find another room to welcome me and another window with a view.