Ode to the Messiness of Making

Ode to the Messiness of Making

 

The small, the short, the delayed, the imperfect, and the pitiful are not honored nearly enough.

Watching a butterfly quietly escape its chrysalis is as magical as any show in Vegas.

Late blooms make us pause in awe just like the first buds of Spring.

Wobbly first steps will make us cheer as heartily as Olympic victories.

The lines we scratch in our journals can stir the spirit as deeply as the lines of legendary bards.

 

Long roads sometimes lead to dead ends. 

How else would the boundaries of the map be made?

True revelation sometimes cloaks itself in paltry epiphanies.

Small movements unlock heavy doors.

We open them and find truer versions of who we are in this world.

 

Today, we sing the praises of the small things.

The first drafts.

The erasure marks.

The balled up pieces of paper.

The scuffed knees.

The fender benders.

The early morning practices.

The dry chicken and burned bread.

Today, we honor the signs of trying.

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