A BLANK CANVAS

That's what I'm staring at.

A blank canvas.

Empty lines in a notebook.

A flickering cursor on a white screen.

Tomorrow.

The month of October.

I love to write. I always have. The word "author" has even been spoken prophetically over my life. Since I was a little girl I have been a writer and a bookworm. I remember when I was about 6 years old I wrote a story about some woodland creatures and fairies planning a birthday party (I think for a rabbit) around an old tree stump. I wish I still had it. My teachers also always found it hard to find words that I couldn't spell or read. Their praise embarrassed shy little me, so I used to pretend that I couldn't spell. But then I would get upset when they noticed because I knew I was better than that.

Lately I have wanted to write more, and write more freely, but I am still that little girl too shy to showcase her art or her heart. I heard somewhere that writing is 20% inspiration and 80% muscle. I prefer to write (and share) only when I am inspired, because then I know it has nothing to do with me or my "talent", all the glory is to my Creator and inspiration, and there will be no embarrassing attention drawn to myself or my heart.

However, right now, all I have is 20%. I could hardly even call it inspiration. It just is what it is. A fact.

I am going to America.

Tomorrow.

For the month of October.

That's what I'm staring at. My blank canvas. It is screaming at me to be filled with... something. But what? That is my question.

I have no idea.

What I do know is that I see the canvas and I don't dare to dream that it is worth anything more than to be scribbled on with crayons, or dare to dream I am capable of anything more. Because I am not going to America to save souls, feed the hungry, or give to the poor. My trip is 100% selfish. I'm going because I want to.

But am I really content to sit back and nod silently with imaginary others who critique my blank canvas as worthy of temporary refrigerator art? A mere holiday that will come and go? Or do I, once again, know that I am better than that?

I look back at my journey over the last four years (since I was there last) and I can see signposts that lead the way... to here and now. It all leads here. Whether it is of my own doing or the fact that I simply exist as a leaf in the Wind (Psalm 37:23), I have come to this. At 24 years old, I have come to this.

Tomorrow.

The month of October.

This is my pilgrimage.