Pick Your Color
"Stop coloring!” My teacher exclaimed as she took the crayons away. I was coloring outside the lines. To her, that was unacceptable. I was only in Kindergarten, but I remember feeling a surge of embarrassment flow through my veins. I didn’t realize how much her words and actions stuck with me, up until this day. When she snatched the crayons out of my hand, I internalized it as, “I’m a terrible artist!” I vowed to never try drawing or painting, and I still don’t like coloring that much. It made me think that creativity and art had to look a certain way and follow certain rules. As an adult, I’ve identified that particular scene in my life as a wound. Some of what I've discovered surfaced through the stanzas of this poem:
Writing poor stanzas feels like
broken fingers
typing on a keyboard.
Nails scrape the keys
in the most uncomfortable way.
The nerves in my fingerprints
sting with each stroke.
The pads of my bones feel pain
more than the click of each letter.
They detest the movement it takes to write a whimsical, rhythmic line.
When the teacher took the crayon away,
she broke my fingers.
She imprisoned the nerves needed to make a mistake.
She shackled the freedom
I thought I had.
She was a warden who caged
any attempts to fly.
Creativity was at the mercy of
perfection.
I had to trade in
play, for precision.
If only imperfection
came to my aid.
It sits here now
and says,
”You’re safe to try.”
—
Creativity
is scary and awkward.
Infused with riddles and always new.
Creativity is stumbling through
dim hallways
with half-lit paintings
and unfinished tapestries.
An alley filled with confetti and glue asking you to piece together your name.
It's saying yes to the warrior in you who will also jump in puddles that turn into
giant trampolines.
Creativity is permission.
It's getting stuck in a tree to see
how eagles land on their feet.
It's also grieving what
you lose.
You will lose perfection;
being liked by everyone
and the mask
that covers up fear.
When you push
through the revolving doors,
you will make your exit —
from the cycle
of defeat into
untouched territory
you bring your crayon to.
Your hands are now, whole.
Take your imperfection and move.
You only have one thing left to do;
pick your color.