If You Were to Tell Me You're Not Creative
If you were to tell me that you don't picture yourself as an artist or a creative person, I would invite you to leave the labels behind. I would gently suggest that you don't attach to the words, because often they come with confines, and your expression does not care to be caged.
If you were to tell me that you can't paint, I would ask you what colors your world, what lights you up and lifts you inside.
If you were to tell me that you can't dance, I would ask you what the flow of your imagination feels like, and how your heart responds to seeing birds in flight, or a river in motion.
If you were to tell me that you can't cook, I would ask you how it feels to savor a moment, or a memory, or what it is to know nourishment.
If you were to tell me that you stumble on your speech, I would ask you if you've ever experienced the unsteady arrival of the seasons, if you've ever noticed the way they falter at first.
If you were to tell me that you made a mess of the sculpture, or the stitching, or the song, I would ask you how the next new breath feels in your body, and how unconcerned it is about all the breaths that came before.
If you were to tell me that your words aren't eloquent enough or deep enough, I would ask you how you felt when you wrote them, and if they brought you a little closer to yourself.
If you were to tell me that you're afraid of ridicule or rejection, I would ask you how it feels to keep your story inside of you, so safe and secret and suffocating.
If you were to tell me that there are a thousand fears floating through your mind, loudly exclaiming all the reasons not to begin or continue, I would ask you what whispers to you, quietly and persistently.
If you were to tell me that this World won't see you or celebrate you, I would ask you if you're willing to create the next World, for the canvas is blank and the air is thick with waiting.
The air is thick with waiting.