You see this picture? I could never in a million years paint that. I can barely take a photograph and it does it no justice, but it gives you an idea of what I saw yesterday.
I have no artistic ability in me, I can’t even mix colors well. Heck, I can barely color inside the lines.
I can not make music, my singing voice is far from what it was in college when I took voice lessons.
I can appreciate the work and where it comes from.
Because I write. I know where that spot is in me. I write the words I’m given. I write from a place deep within, marred by many things over the years. The years have honed the words. Sometimes the words come up from the deep and spill all over the page.
The blank page. My canvas. The picture isn’t always pretty; but it’s clear and if you look you will see me in what I write. My portrait.