I don't believe there is one great thing I was made to do in this world.
I believe there is one great God I was made to glorify. And there will
be many ways, even a million little ways, I will declare his glory with
my life. - A Million Little Ways by Emily P. Freeman
The leaves are just starting to fall outside. The sun turns in earlier. Just last night, Ruby scooped up fistfuls of amber petals and flung them into the air like confetti.
Usually around this time I'm writing 'til my fingers bleed about Letting Go or Going. For the past two Octobers, I've had something quite specific to say. (and say, and say...)
But the calendar flipped 4 days back and I found myself with empty hands, no big plans.
Had I lost a bit of magic?
Had I finally bled myself dry on this page?
Those are the thoughts that plague this artist. My words are a waterfall, a whitecap, a dusty creek bed.
Some nights find me sneaking downstairs with a spiral notebook and a pen, waving my yawns away because there's not enough time for all the words.
Other nights are spent looking behind closed doors, searching in the dark, feeling stood up for my own dance. It's those nights I'm sure that whatever I had was plucked from me and fairy-danced to a different lucky girl, one who does proper writerly things like drink coffee in itchy socks and read the classics.
That's the big, bad problem with art, and the meaning of life, really. It's the thing that trips us up.
We've let the world tell us what it is, and where to find it. We've seared certain images into our hearts and brains - the curved bow of a violin, the timbre of an alto, a muddled box of oils. We look to the high places, track the obvious answers. Some of us our artists, then. But what about everyone else? And what becomes of the writer when she's used up all her words?
I've learned the best solution to my personal "artistic" stagnation is to run toward the art that kicks and wiggles around me every minute, all the days.
I invest myself there, and it is art. A truly beautiful thing. It brings me back to life because I choose to notice it straight out of the mundane.
The real truth is, we all love art. It might be oil or pastel. It might
be a Mustang with a supercharger. Maybe it's the perfect jump shot.
Maybe it's truffle oil barely whispering in the pan. It could be silk
cut on the bias or Japanese anime. Maybe it's Beyonce. - FPFG, April 2, 2012
We live and move amid a continuous riot of art, blended, glittered-up, contrasting, piercing.
If we can see it as the gift it is, the artist crafted into each of us comes alive. We thank the Artist who shaped us with whatever we have to offer - the 8 year old's jelly sandwich, the frost-nipped roses in a thrift store can, the Ginko leaves imagined into tutus, the shelter of a Daddy - and we bear His image. Artist.
When we recognize the place where our desire runs parallel to that of Christ's, then we will live in the midst of the now-but-not-quite-yet with a peace that goes beyond our ability to understand. - A Million Little Ways by Emily P. Freeman
I have devoured every word Emily has ever written. Her new book, A Million Little Ways, is no exception. She sees the world from the most beautiful vantage point and so graciously helps me see it, too.
The short video clip below says it all. THIS is a message each of us needs.
Friends, It's time to unleash our reluctant artist.
Find your copy here. And have your underlining pen ready.
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