As I was lying there looking at the ceiling, staring at the stars out the window, I had a couple thoughts.
Artistic. The word in the dictionary states the meaning of the word to be an adjective having or revealing natural creative skill. This is according to the apple dictionary. However, from where I sit, I believe it means so much more.
See, I have spent the last few days with my tears ready to stream at any given moment. Weapie like a willow. Tears are my masterpiece right now. I am unable to really create anything. Though I do put some effort into making something everyday, I do not always succeed. I am experiencing inner turmoil. Dissatissaction with what I am creating in my world. Thus, I have taken on this new task or goal. Writing. To create illustrations later. It's slow going and I don't really know what I am doing. I am feeling overly tender hearted. My eyes leak at the slightest unkind word, or thought. It's like having a paper cut that nags your finger and causes discomfort even though it is so small. Problem is, I live in fear that these tears and tenderness will be seen as instability. When really it is my artistic nature to feel too deep, cry too easily, and love as if my heart were the Milky Way.
Then I think of the artistic, creative people I know and have studied about in the past. I realize something quite tragic. Artists feel things deeply. Not to say we are better than those who love in logic. However, logical people would claim us creatives to be irrational. Sometimes that may be true in the worlds view. Really though, our emotions most of the time cannot be controlled. They need to be expressed. In a drawing, a painting, a song, a poem, a sculpture. The medium really doesn't matter. But the ache that wells up within the waterfall of emotions must be cut out of us and bleed onto the paper. It is so intense. So consuming. If we cannot recreate the emotion into a piece of art then our tears must spill over to show the world that our emotions will be heard. They will be felt. They must be expressed. This is where I live right now. Wending my way. Wandering through. Discovering a realm within myself that says...I'm okay just the way I am. I just need to express it.
All of this may sound absurd to the realist reading it. When I think of Vincent Van Gogh, I feel a softness in my heart for a man who ran out of ways, words, and tears. Therefore, he left this world and to this day we enjoy his works of heart. His starry night has been recreated in more ways than he could ever have fathomed. He was an emotional mess. By his art, I judge, he was a beautiful mess.
My point? Well, I guess it is this. Next time you encounter a creative, artistic, emotional individual perhaps for just a moment before you tell them they are irrational, too emotional and ask them if they are still on their meds...just perhaps you could encourage them to create....take time to listen to their stories... Or just sit with them as the tears paint streams of sadness down their cheeks. Don't judge them. Don't try to change them. Don't medicate them.
Encourage them. Let them be. Let them shine in their gifts and enlighten our minds. Appreciate them for who they are.
A beautiful mess.
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