There is a place where I come, a place where white space beckons and I feel the fear of never filling the space with tiny black letters that will add up to some thing that once born, will have a meaningful life beyond my wildest imaginings.
In this place there are no preconceived notions, no ideas fully born into creation, birthed on a silver spoon of comfortable thoughts cushioned by a world of privilege and ease. No. In this place, each idea rides in on the agony of an afterbirth tearing through the placenta of my creative womb. Each thought is pushed through the birth canal, squeezed and pummelled and rendered helpless in its journey into the world only to be cut off at the umbilical cord of my desire to give meaning to an idea not yet coming to term with its existence.
In this place, I know fear. Smell it. Feel it. Live it. Breathe it. It's rancid breath steams up my glasses, fogs up my ability to see clearly, feel openly, be open to creativity's rising swell within the luscious womb of my desire to write. To write and give voice to the unborn children of my mind opening wide, legs spread wide apart, hips thrust forward, as I lay exposed, the lush, verdant landscape of my creative core exposed, vulnerable, open.
In this place, fear beckons with a gnarly finger, calling me, calling me to come hither into the realms of my limited beliefs that I cannot, will not, must not venture out onto that unfettered page where I risk so much to expose the truth of my being. Oh no, fear hisses, do not muddy up the virginal space with black creeping letters, with words and sentences connected through an idea forming its way into creation. Do not risk.
I want to scream at fear to go back. Go back. Leave me alone. But it hisses on. And on. You do not want to expose yourself to the page. That place where words become sentences and sentences become paragraphs and who knows what might happen if they link themselves around a coherent thought forming an idea that might set you free. That might expose limited beliefs of yesterday holding you to the pages of a memory book where you could not set yourself free of your past.
Oh no, hisses my fear. You do not want to fill the page with anything. Let it stand. White. Stark. Naked. Let it be free.
And I sigh and know, I cannot give into fear.
I turn and face it.
I see you, I whisper. I hear you. I know you. You are with me. I am with you. But I cannot let you stop me. Your time is past. Your time is gone.
It's my time now.
And my fingers move of their own volition. Forward. Slowly. Painstakingly. They touch the smooth black keys. Feel the ridge upon the F calling me home to fire and hearth and the womb where a creative spark lies waiting to be ignited. They settle into position.
I breathe. Feel the tension ease out of my shoulders. Feel my hips ground into my body. My feet set firmly on the floor. I breathe and let my mind wander into the playing field of my desire to write, into the unwritten truth yet to be revealed.
Open me up to expansion I whisper to the muse. Fear is here. Let fear be safe so I can set myself free to fill the whiteness before me with my creative expression. Let me give birth to what is within me. Let the letters and words and sentences tumble out. Spilling their essence upon the page in riotous abandon. Let them give meaning to their presence. Let them birth their way through the canals of my thinking into a world of wonder and awe and beauty and dreamy confections of their creation.
Let me be their conduit to freedom.
Let me be the birth canal of their descent into being.
Let me be their vessel of truth.