Art of Creation!

The phosphorescent waters on the quiet lake, stirred by lengthy wooden oars, sent ripples of violent radiance in long strokes along the sides of the roughly crafted wooden boat. The sound of water being stirred, the white foam that rose from the lake like a gush of laughter, the slew of green vegetation along the banks that ended in the horizon where the orange sun perched, all made me forget my plan!

The plan was to simply cross to the other side and capture the view, as best as I could with a drawing pad and a bunch of pastels. Instead I chose to row along, humming this tune that had entered me from nowhere, like a song that had sprung straight from the eye to the heart and lay resonating in my throat! The day marked for creation was spent like a vacation and at night a thin line of guilt lingered.

The next morning with resolve enhanced by guilt I resumed my abandoned cause with renewed fervor. The colors on my palette were appetizing and the promise of beauty seemed within arms reach and my hope was exuberant. But the strokes commanded by the one within stopped mid-way in seeming incompletion! I asked, "Is this it?" and the answer spoken back was, “This is all!"

The next day during the class tribunal where worthiness is ranked and handwork merited I stood feeling like a lamb among lions. My day’s work stood pale amongst those of skill filled masters and I endured their sympathetic acceptance with brutal introspection, until having encircled my self in criticism, several times, I let go and gave up control.

Since there was nothing else to do, no celebrations to attend or no commentary of commend, I went back to the glittering lake this time with the plan to simply row. The mountains on the banks stretched out far, the sky bore its usual magic, the calming waters simply glided by this insignificantly tiny rowboat and its speck of a host and I smiled!

Tonight the yearning was to play, to play with colors! I let-go of resolve and permitted my spirits to flow. We danced in the mixtures, we played with the shades, we smeared and struck the canvas in haste, some strokes were long, some were a stab and once in sheer joy we scraped the painting with a dash. After a while when the playing was through, I stood back and explored the work that was due! And I was in awe of my own creation!

The next day in class I handled the compliments with the tame of the subservient because the play of inspiration is not like the reliance of scientific exploration. So where in an ocean you may dive several times to bring to the surface the same gem or dime, I swim in the waters that reward me solely for the spirit with which I play!