This Is Letting Go

Her body is nearly limp; her breathing is faint. My arms tremble as I struggle to hold her weight. When I first lifted her, I was confident that I could carry her all the way. I could save her. The walk was longer than anticipated. Turns out I wasn't as strong as I thought. I don't have strength for two. Not for much longer. My arms continue to weaken and the angry red stain on her shirt continues to grow. I'm running out of time.

"Help me!" I said, bursting through the door. 

He turned from his work and set his glasses on his nose. He lifted her shirt to reveal the deep gash across her stomach.

"I'm scared she's gonna die." I fought to keep my voice level. "I don't know what to do anymore; tell me what to do so I can save her."

"I'm going to have to work on her," He said after a moment's silence. He reached out to remove her from my arms.

I flinched.

"Just.. just tell me what I need to do." My voice wavered. My legs shook as I stood before him, the pain was becoming evident on my face.

He reached out again. 

"Give her to me," He said softly.

Time seemed to drain like the blood from her side. My pride or her life.

I passed her over to him and he carefully laid her unconscious body on the table. I slumped down the wall to the floor as exhaustion overcame me. I listened to the tools being prepared and organized. Suddenly I was lifted to my feet.

"I need you to step outside while I do this." His eyes peered into the storm of my soul as a wave of helplessness threatened to sweep me off my feet.

"How long will it take?" I managed. "Will she make it?"

The firmness of the grip on my shoulders settled my reeling emotions and put my deepening fear to rest.

"Trust me."

I could feel confidence returning to my feet as I made my way to the door. I gazed over my shoulder at her once more. He was already beginning to work; I could see color returning to her face.

I heard his voice once more as I hit the door.

"Remember the day I carried you in here?"

I lifted my shirt and traced the long scar across my stomach with my finger. I remembered now. My faith in His hands was strengthened once again.

Clarity

I never had career goals or ambitions or anything like that. I don't know what I want to pursue as a career. But I did aspire to be a world champion martial artist. Now maybe I'm not world champion material, but I can still be an artist. I can create art with my movements, I can create art with my camera, I can create art with my words. If being an artist means seeing the world the way other people don't or appreciating what other people miss and then expressing myself the way no one else can, then that's what I want to be.

Flatline

The doctors burst into the emergency room. This is critical. No vitals, no signs of life. Revive him. 

"Clear!"

Shock him, spark him, bring him back to life. We can't lose him. Flurry of motion and activity, hard work and undivided attention.

The monitor beeps slowly, rhythmically; the green lines on the screen spike upwards with methodic regularity. Eyes closed, breathing faintly. 

They used to visit him, huddled around the bed holding hands, wishing for his recovery, praying for his return. As the days grew in number so the hopefuls dwindled in their expectations; the visits became less frequent. The monitor is the only sound, the only sign of life. The blips on the monitor are just as reluctant to acknowledge his presence as the visitors.

The lack of movement begins to eat away at his skin. The world has left him behind; the constant movement of everything outside overtakes the stillness in the room as he slowly fades away. The dust falls undisturbed on the bed. The monitor continues to beep faithfully, faintly.

The blinking cursor sneers at me. The empty page hits me in the face. Nothing. I've got nothing. They come and then they go, passing through my mind without leaving a trace of inspiration. Nothing sticks, nothing stays. The orphanage is empty. Left alone with my incoherent thoughts. The floor is a mess of misplaced creativity, lack of skill, oppressive emotions and withering motivation.

I can't keep my eyes on the page; movement outside the window, voices in the hall, all calling me, beckoning me, urging me to bury my dead on move on. The monitor seems smaller than it did before. The lifelessness of the room is stifling. I shake off the dust and abandon my post. 

The monitor sounds once more, this time a single, sustained note.

Torn

This is a sickness. This is an illness that weakens the body and churns the stomach; the cause of many a listless day and sleepless night.

This is a drug. This is an addiction, producing irrational habits, hallucinations, distorting sight and warping the mind.

This is the friend that takes me home when I'm wasted, nourishes me back to health when I'm hurting, talks me through my deepening darkness, removing the bullets from the gun.

This is light and dark, night and day. This is my passion and hope; this is my weakness and my downfall.

Watch and Learn

Imagine an artist. 

He sits on a bench in a courtyard. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak. He simply watches. The sky, the birds, the flowers, dogs barking, people walking, cars driving, trains moving. He just watches.

And then he goes home. He takes all that he's seen and heard and tasted and felt with him back to his workshop. He clears the table and prepares his tools, arming himself with a new canvas, a fresh brush and a clear mind. A clean slate. He constructs an image, a replication of these things that he observed from his day, from his point of view. This image, this representation of his experie
nce from that day or sometimes from previous days, this creation draws out the often overlooked beauty of the mundane, the routine, the ordinary. This image--part reality, part personality--exposes the viewer to wonders previously unseen and never before considered and invites the viewer to participate in the artist's experience.

Oftentimes the artist is credited with skill in painting or drawing or sculpting. While this is usually true, this is not his primary strength. His strength is in his eyes, his ears, his feelings. His thoughts. His perception. He sees what you don't. He sees what you won't.

This is what I try to do. I observe. I think. I write. This is my canvas.

This sitting back and watching thing.. It's a double-edged sword. It's good to be able to observe things and see the beauty in simplicity and discover things that other people miss. It's also terrible because this also tends to be my approach for the rest of my life: sit back, watch it happen and hope for the best. I like blame this on my reserved personality but in reality it's just a bad habit that I've accepted as part of who I am. 

Right now I'm taking a class on article writing, and this class is pushing me to step outside of that "observing from afar" deal that I'm comfortable with and take steps be proactive and actually "get a story." I can look at something and make observations about it; that's easy. For example, have you ever noticed the way a person walks? Even if it's not a pronounced gait or limp? I pride myself on being able to pick out a friend in a crowd simply by the way they walk. I've seen enough people walking in my life and paid attention enough to recognize a certain stride and pace when I see it, even from a distance. That's just me observing. However, going out and engaging with people and 'making' a story is a whole new ballgame for me. It's still observing and writing, it's just more involving and engaging. This casual observation versus active participation in observation is sort of a personality clash for me. "It's not who I am." And it doesn't have to be. I can live with that.

It's a skill worth learning. And I intend on learning this skill, expanding horizons and broadening my experiences. At the end of the day, it still comes down to seeing, hearing, thinking, and then writing. That's what I want to do, that's what I like to do. And the more mediums I get to do that in, the better.

The perceptive artist in his workshop, the seasoned journalist in the field, the ambitious college student writing and producing from his garage. It's all art. Expression. Observation.

Gotta start somewhere.

Waves

It's a funny feeling the first time something really hits you. Really hits you. It's like the floodgates have opened and the words begin to flow and you drop whatever you happen to be doing and just go with it. It's like being swept off your feet by a wave you never saw coming. You find yourself riding this wave, this surge of inspiration and momentum and you don't care where it takes you or where you'll end up. You simply let it run its course and take you where it wills. And when it finally sets you back on your feet in the sand, or lying belly-up in the surf, you look at this mess you've made and the ripples you've created and you feel amazing, exhilarated, and accomplished.

Standing there on the beach, trying to figure out what the heck just happened. Lost in the moment, lost in the thrill, acting on instinct, not thinking, just doing, just moving, going, feeling. Feeling.

And then you spend the rest of the day, or for some, the rest of your life wadding into the surf, paddling through the fire and foam, braving the incoming tide, searching for that perfect wave, for the next experience, for that feeling. To make that feeling become a reality again. You'll do whatever it takes to find it. Because there's really nothing quite like it.

You can't explain it. But you want it. You'll do anything to find it. And once you get it, you never let it go.

QOTD 3

"When you meet an extraordinary person, it’s like they get inside you, under your ribs, and shuffle everything inside you around until they find space for greatness to grow. But extraordinary people always get away. And when they leave, they take that little part of you with them. Suddenly you find yourself with a gap in your chest that you don’t know how to live with. Suddenly you’re frightened of being yourself without them..." - Nick Ellsworth