Being imperfect

The tulip bulbs are terrifying

as I sit before them
ready to draw.

Not in themselves are they terrifying,
in themselves they are innocent,
and free of terror.
They are glistening, creamy bulbs
shedding paper-brown skins
and yielding forth
odd green spikes
that are folded, and rounded
and slightly bent.
What could be terrifying about that?

But I have elected to draw them
and in the sitting and the looking
a huge wave of emotion arises
and I start to cry.

And as I sit before the tulip bulbs
and try to breathe through the emotion
I find I cannot sit with
the terrifying tulip bulbs.

They remind me of being twenty
and being told not to draw!
Oh the wounds from such a
casual, throw-away remark.

Last time I drew,
in this very place,
it was magical,
as I was led by the hand
to recreate on paper
the undulating and bracken-filled
scene before me.

This morning,
the tulip bulbs are terrifying
as they provoke and feed
a deep sense of failure.
in seeking for perfection
I cannot begin.

Those circles, oh those circular pots
are terrifying!
I long for straight lines
and squares that I can relate to.
These circles and spheres and orbs
provoke great fear
in their seeming harmlessness,
and pencil dare not touch paper.

What is this fear that rose
so ferociously and unexpectedly?
The fear of being found out,
of being revealed as a charlatan
who has all kinds of creative talents
but cannot draw a tulip bulb!
The fear of being seen as less than I am.
This ego that is often acquiescent
and so small as to be barely noticeable
suddenly roars, and protests
and does not wish to be revealed,
does not wish to be seen as imperfect,
does not wish to be seen as human!

© 16 Mar 2013