“Plant a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.”

-Chinese proverb

Once again I find myself completely mystified as to how to proceed. I am not just talking about my latest mixed-media pieces. I am referring to, well…just about everything.

Sure, we’re supposed to aspire to beginners mind; always a fresh child-like ability to remain open and ready for whatever, not really prepared, but instead, always in this state of open flow. That, apparently is the goal. Not, that we, Heaven forbid, actually have goals…but if one did…

It isn’t only yoga that honours this beginner mind. There is the Biblical admonishment to, ‘have faith like a child’. In other words, don’t bring your tired-ass-oh-so-jaded-and-weary-shit to the party of life.

But how, pray tell, does one do that? I kind of like feeling semi-accomplished at something; at the very least, to feel quasi-competent in some regard. And yet, with every piece of writing, and now, with these two latest mixed-media pieces that I’m working on, I am utterly flummoxed. I have no idea how I achieved the previous effects.

None.

Whatsoever.

I don’t know how I did it and I don’t know how to get there again.

I stare at the two 12″ x 12″ cradled boards and feel an overwhelming wave of incompetence, ineptitude, inability, all those ‘in’ words that dig ever inward into the deepest pockets of my fears, those dark mildewed places called, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how I ever did it.

I throw on layers of paper. It looks like shit. Everything I’ve done so far is a random mess. Childlike faith my ass. This particular child is having a meltdown – yet again.

The good news is, of course, that as witnessed by this post, I never stop observing myself. Believe me when I tell you that this is both a good thing and a complete horror. On the good side, I can’t help but be amused by the overdramatic tantrum of my inner child. Really Colleen? Really?

Once more I pull up my big girl panties and give myself a little chat. Relax. Breathe into it. Paint a little without thinking about it. Sand another corner. Spray a little rubbing alcohol on that messy bit there. Sand some more off. If it’s completely awful, well, sand off everything. Have fun. Lighten up.

Let go of the need to know how it all turns out.

Today, whether I like the stupid bumper sticker or not, is the first day of the rest of my life. It would seem that everything I did previous to today has receded into the great morass of unknowing. Yesterday’s carefully built semi-competence and understanding of what to do next has left the building.

Instead. Each day I start from scratch with whatever I am about to do.

Art is said to be healing.

But whether I’m writing or painting or doing pretty much anything at all, it often feels like every new start is a fresh ripping off of another sticky BandAid from my heart. Yet, without a little fresh bleeding, how else am I supposed to remain open?

Can’t keep ourselves all swaddled in layers of protective gauze now can we? Not, at least, if we want to feel the depth of our lives.

This then is my ongoing prayer:

Here I am.  Starting over. Once again.

With the faith of a child and the memories and knowledge of all my failings. 

Renew my heart.

Freshen my dreams and let me start again.