As I embrace my one word for 2013, ART, I put on the lens of story through the art form of letter writing. And I humbly bring my offering in the series “Letters From The Village”. This is the one in which I write to the white space that faces the creative and the writer, before the work is born.
To read all the penned letters in the series, simply click on the tab at the top of the home page entitled “Letters From The Village”. Thank you for walking out this series with me. The overflow of my heart.
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I could sit and stare at you, frozen in a place of uninspired repose. And wait. And wrestle and gnaw and rail against the struggles in this place.
And wonder why I come to gaze into the void. The stark unformed sea of empty, bleached white stares at me.
The option to leave empty, me emptier. Choice crouches, hides and waits. Tempted to raise white flag, in defeat
There is no forced march here. I don’t go hungry or want for sustenance if I am turned away from you with hands wide open but filled with nothingness.
Cold. Bare. Bareness winning out.
You intimidate, or try, on days, dry days of drought.
But then and that’s the important part. But then. The passion ignites and meets your white empty, with inspiration fueled by writing’s impassioned delightful flames.
White nothing, step aside, fling open your gates, your doors, your portals for a word or two. The overflow of the heart.
Make way. Make room. Prepare your blank for the artist’s hands. For when the flames are lit and ear has heard a word, a thought has birthed a poem, the brush strokes fill the sea of white with teeming life, with words.
And what goes there has subtle strength and power. To bring encouragement, beauty, whispers of delight. Stories told of life and living, bold dreams dared to break free, overcoming leaps of faith, and battles won on life’s messy stage. Lines of love and life, sweet prayers of hope and amazing grace.
Once you yield your canvas to the hands of writer, poet, the weaving thread on thread begins. And the looming work of writer’s heart pulls threads of thought by thought to form the messy message on a page. Praying all the while for beauty. Leaning in to hear and write with wrist and fingers, hands and heart a piece of written obedience, the delivery of her art.
Conquering the fear of blank. Wrestling with the fear of steady void on page. Because of grace and truly, truly it rides on grace. The words, they dance or sing to souls and hearts carried on the backs, lifted by strong arms of grace.
Releasing all control and bending low to hear anew, the inspiration she longs to capture in her web, to weave on strong and bold, with a knowing that the inspiration will come today. And trusting it will come tomorrow. And knowing all the while the gift is gift. The privilege humbles. The heart trusts the stops and starts but longs for constant steady flow.
Of words.
So I will come to you white page, with my palette and my paints. And cast my net into the sea and count you friend, not enemy.
And we’ll make art until the words dry up. And we’ll write poetry and maybe even songs one day. Songs that sing with notes or without. That cause the heart to dance a bit.
You’ll be my friend and sing encouragement to my soul, as white noise comforters me on sleepless night. And you will represent beginning new, potential, promise hope and good.
You redeem a life on page. You hold grace within your pure white boundaries of unending hope.
And I will thank you for your company, the beauty rests in white delight. And calls me to come play and pen. Calls me to write a love song, poem or prose.
But white page, blank canvas my heart writes this love poem to you.
And seals it with p.s. its all because of Grace, sweet amazing Grace, and you.
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elizabeth w. marshall 