On Trust

Early afternoon in a sun-drenched basement window,  I sat huddled at a desk with quiet tears streaming down my face. A rough draft full of ink squiggles and Post-Its lay in front of me, years worth of magic and struggle sandwiched between its pages, a lifetime of lessons so sweetly placed in its hands for safe-keeping. I woke this morning with nothing but question marks, persistently complaining into handwritten journal pages I don't have the answers. I don't even know what answers I'm looking to find, while a steady voice in the back of my head countered every attempt at avoidance by relentlessly whispering trust the process. Sometimes you have to let yourself choose to keep working, sometimes you have to put your ego and fears aside, even for just a little while, and carry on despite them. Because eventually, as I sat there in the rubble of my creative flotsam, a solution appeared, a story unfolded, an answer wrote itself right in front of me, and for a short moment I dared believe that everything would come together after all. A small girl stood at the edge of the last page, waving. I pulled out a piece of paper from the envelope.

(somewhere along the line
the pearl would be handed  
                  to me.)

And it is beautiful in my hand.