Please don’t miss this post from the lovely Emily at Chatting at the Sky today. Over these January weeks she’s been telling us, this year, we will make art. And then, almost as if she can hear our denials, our demurring, even the whisper soft closings of our bedroom doors, she’s been daring to name the obsticles we feel rising up between us and our art making. Naming the enemies of our passionate creation. Nudging us toward delight.
And then today, she talks about what to do when we serve up our art and folks say, “No, thank you,” drifting away from the circle of our lens or pen or brush. She asks us to be hostesses to those who come to our table, rather than worrying about why others dine elsewhere.
Oh, goodness, I wish I was there. Whisking off my apron, opening the door with a smile.
I’m stuck in the kitchen. Oven hot, ingredients arrayed. But my fingers clamped fearfully to the rim of an empty mixing bowl. In it I see the reflection of that little girl, passionately in love with language, scared stiff with the fear of rejection. Will this be the year I really measure and stir, shape and rise? Test with fire and taste and savor?
Will this be the year I actually write more than I talk about writing?