Thought for The Day - Truth in Reflection

I'm back at it; I put paint on the palette, dipped the brush in the paint and dabbed at the canvas, just a couple days ago. There were moments of guilt, confusion and wonder. The sense of opening the doors of my soul, listening to the spirit's gentle guidance and working out the mysteries of life as they wrestled in my head. When I execute "morning pages," it is an opportunity to face my insecurities, my fears, pains and my hope. But standing in front of a canvas or sitting over paper, those same feelings hover above without the same sense of power. There are no gut wrenching revelations; only quandaries, pleasant puzzles and time to quietly contemplate.

The question: if I'm at peace, why wouldn't I paint and draw regularly? Why is it I lay aside my colors and quiet reasoning to worry and fret? An answer, like a shadow perceived in the mirror, avoids full disclosure to my conscious. When faced with my "shadow-side," my tendency is to run from it, like looking in the mirror and realizing the sag of my cheeks is an indicator I'm no longer 25. I want to "solve the problem," but the "dilemma" is as much a part of me as the spirt that animates my flesh. I fear I will remain stuck in the corporate hustle; that, because of some weakness in flesh, I will continue the morning routine of going to "work," and every now and then, "squeezing in" a few minutes at the canvas. The cruelty of life: what you love, you barely have time for. But what nags at you, persists near endlessly. It sits in your bones and slowly robs you of vitality.

Hope runs eternal; this is the same guy whose mom accused of being lazy and said he would never marry or hold a full-time job. This is the same guy, who, given a chance, would stay in the bed till 10:00 am or later, as a teen. And this is the same guy who thought he might never see a tube of oil paint in his hand. This is the same guy who finds it extremely difficult to stay in bed until dawn and has to write every day. This is the same guy who silently wars against his fears, the needs of family and the incessant demands for his time. Most of the time, I lose; laundry, errands and someone else's needs take precedent. But there is always a sense of hope; at some point, I will "turn a corner," pick up my brush and give my spirit the space and time needed to set me free.