"The artist is not a special kind of person; rather each person is a special kind of artist." — Ananda Coomaraswamy

There is nothing quite as intimidating as the parched desert of a blank page. An infinite number of distractions tug at one's sleeve when sitting down to write. “I’ll just to this one thing,” which leads to another, and then another in a side step shuffle of delay.

Nonetheless, the best way to get beyond a vast horizon of procrastination is to simply begin.

Begin. Even if what chugs out is a rusty syllable or two, one need not fret ‘cause there is plenty of opportunity to do some polishing.  It’s surprising how one little thought conjures up a mate that bumps into some newfangled inkling. Before long, ideas spill forth as though they are running to greet a cherished friend, not seen for a fortnight.

I recall, that Erie once encouraged my writing efforts by telling me to notice how the process affects the quality of our lives.  Recently,  I read the novel, “An American Childhood” by author Annie Dillard.  In this splendid autobiographical book, the author recounts her desire as young girl  to observe and commit to memory everything that happened in life before it was lost forever. In this way, when we write of our experiences and our imaginings, we record images that convey clarity, transmuting fading remembrances in focused appreciation.

Sometimes, when my thoughts spread out to indelibly ink the parchment of my heart they become bigger than life. Certainly, more bold. Writing my experiences intermingles with the myth of my dreams in a sacred manner. Creative expression reveals a kaleidoscope of color in translucent hues amidst dark silhouettes.

So often people cannot see themselves as creative and are unwilling to try on the robe of an artist. Distancing words crowd out all possibility, “Oh no, not me. No, I can’t draw anything but chicken scratch, nor paint or write for I have no imagination. I can’t sing or act. Dance?  Why I have two left feet! No don’t play an instrument, can’t even carry a tune. Why, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”  The white flag of defeat waves presumptuously.

Who told us these things? Were we so convinced that we gave up long before ever trying? Some say that I have artistic tendencies. Yet, what I see is those artistic qualities in the person before me. When I pick up a brush and swirl color it is my way of expressing Love. (Of course, practice by doing helps in whatever artistic endeavor we gravitate towards).

The gift of a creative spirit manifests in each of us in the most profound ways:  For my mom, it is in 96 years of letter writing, for a child; a sense of wonder, for a lover; intimacy, for a friend; devotion, for a stranger; becoming family…

Perhaps, we cultivate the art of living when we give our complete attention to what is in front of us. In these days, when technology lures us toward instant gratification, it can become exceeding difficult to commit to spiritual practices. Yet, if we offer our wholehearted presence to what we love we may notice an enhanced quality in our experiences.

 Caregivers are artists of a noble kind. Their listening hearts’ create a blank canvas where each person is seen, recognized and genuinely loved for what they are.

~liz Sorensen Wessel

Note: Above drawing is called, "Hands" and is a lithograph by the Dutch artist M. C. Escher which was first printed in January 1948. Don't you love it?