I’m really feeling it for this post, because this is piece #165 (meaning that I’ve written consecutively for 165 days).
It’s only been a handful of months but I can see myself finding my voice with each slow, painful, passing day.
I’m restricted by time, as in I can’t fast forward a year from now and write like as if I were on day 530.
I just have to write like I’m on day 165.
There’s no pretending, and there’s no shortcut.
In the greatest way possible, it’s fair because it’s self-generated and can’t be stolen.
I took a mould making course in school.
I remember never knowing how my pieces would turn out until after they were taken out of the kiln (and I would spend several agonizing hours on each piece making sure they were good enough).
When in the kiln, many things could go wrong: too much glaze, pieces breaking off, cracks forming, or something explodes. All of which is unstoppable and hard to predict.
But besides all of what is messy and ugly, there’s also the unexpectedly beautiful. Colours finalize, blend, and the whole nature of the piece changes.
And to get to see that, we still have to go through all the steps and the time.
The firing process is dark, requires patience, and it changes everything, but it has to be done.
We’ve just got to fire and see what happens.
You can rationalize yourself out of an idea because there will always be reasons not to go forward:
not the right time, not the right people, not enough experience, too much responsibility, too big a risk, nobody would want it—“it just won’t be any good”.
We’ve gotten so good at saying no, that we forget how to ask, “But what if?”
Just suspending the idea of protecting ourselves from difference can give us one more reason to work against fear.