I call it the tyranny of the blank page. I also call it the miracle of the blank page. How that plays out is up to me more often than not.
I can tell myself that blank page will mock me because what I fill it with will not be good enough/smart enough/has been said before. Or, I can remember that if I shut out all voices but those that matter, what I create will be worth the journey regardless. It is a leap of faith every single time.
While many of my friends do not write, they face their own blank page. It’s called life. It is a leap of faith every single time.
A select few are Picassos and Rembrandts, Renoirs and O’Keefes. They take whatever life throws at them and they create beauty on a page. Children who find themselves, homes that are havens of peace, callings instead of careers. These are my inspiration, my posse, the ones I call at 2 a.m.
Many more are in the middle, scribbling on a page they have forgotten is theirs to create. Complaining about how tired that makes them. Using one color while they ignore the other 119 hues in the box they were provided.
And a few have stopped even the scribbling. They stare at their page, unsure of whether to erase what is there and begin anew.
It is the last group I worry about the most. When the stare becomes trancelike, when they forget they are a co-creator with the Divine—well, that is usually when things fall apart. Because if we stubbornly dig our heels in when the winds of change begin to blow, it does not stop the winds. They blow just as much as if we cooperated. They buffet us this way and that—and we end up where we would have had we not fought those gusts. We are just more bruised and shaken than we needed to be.
I strive for O’Keefe, continuing to find new colors in my box. I continue to create in ways others relate to, as well as in some they completely misunderstand.
All is well, though, as long as I keep creating. The blank page is not winning. My designs are of my own making and they are filling the page. The rest becomes irrelevant.