the art of surrender.

here i sit in the messy studio called life. On the wall to my left there is nothing but a huge canvas. It's framed beautifully, but the painting is not complete. The edges are all there and the paint is creeping into the middle, only part of the picture is clear, as if the artist doesn't know how to fill in the blank spots. The once white sheets that cover the hard wood floor are matted and covered in all shades of emotions. Red. Blue. Purple. Green. Yellow. The stool i sit on is strong from the foundation i came from and soft from the love i have been growing in. The water that cleans the paint brushes is made mostly from tears i have collected. Half painted canvases lay about the room. They are dreams that have yet to be framed by the years of a life lived long. the tin and rusting garbage can is full of crumpled sketches that never made it from the notebook pages to a canvas. They are the dreams that were born from silly places, mad places and places only meant to grow a creative imagination. Behind me is a window. Sun light pours in from the cold outdoors and warms my back. I can hear the wind rushing through the juniper trees. The door is open a bit and i can hear the music of other lives pouring in as if to encourage me to keep painting. My tshirt is stained from sweat and paint. I think the left sleeves has a mascara stain that will never come out. The jeans i wear are ripped at the knees and hem, those are the perks of being short and spending time on my knees. I like to paint barefoot. My toenails are pink. My hair is a beautiful dark mess of curls and braids. My face is striped in different shades of pale by the tear streaks in my foundation. My blue eyes stare wildly at the mostly white canvas on the easel in front of me. Searching for the brush i need, my hands shake and knock something off the table that rolls across the floor. I think it was a bouncy ball. As i look back at the canvas the confusion of what i am working on stares back at me. There is vision in my head. There is something i am trying to convey in this piece, yet it doesn't seem to be making sense. The colors are blending weird and the moments are passing drying them in places i didn't expect them to stay. It looks differently than what i had originally thought i was painting. It's beautiful, but not what i thought it would be. I hear my Teacher behind me...somewhere beyond the window, encouraging me to keep painting. Telling me that it's OK, and that this happens to all His students. I dip the brush into my favorite color. Purple. Music. As i bring the brush to the canvas i can feel my hand shaking and the tears coming. Listening to the Instructor i let the wet paint brush glide across the stiff canvas just as i am told, not because i understand, but because i trust my Teacher.