I’m not adverse to creativity. Give me a computer or pen and paper, and thoughts flow. Writing is a form of imaginativeness I can enjoy. Words are tools that produce inventive pictures.
Hand me a paintbrush and a piece of pottery and I feel like a monkey being handed a violin and being told to play. Or like me being handed a violin and being told to play.
Not really my skill set.
But it doesn’t stop me from trying.
What in the dickens do I paint?
Not only what do I paint but why am I doing it? The last few pieces I’ve done are hidden under piles of stuff. Originally meant to contain stuff, each are now overwhelmed by said stuff. Why make another piece of pottery suffer when it could simply sit where it is, white and clean, on the shop shelf, waiting for someone who knows what they’re doing?
I decided to paint it for a friend who couldn’t be there. Done and gone.
Others began quickly, creating designs using stencils or freehand art because they’d had notion of what they wanted to do. Color schemes in their heads. A place where they’d put their piece in their homes.
I caved. I looked. I copied.
It took longer than I’d thought. My hand began to cramp from holding the paint pen tightly. My edges were squiggly when I wanted them straight. The color blobbed when I wanted it smooth.
Oh, the frustrations of art.
What the women did was impressive. Beautiful pieces, from coasters to tea pots. From simple to fancy. Granted, some relied on Pinterest, like me. Others had wonderful ideas they’d crafted from a special memory or to remind them of a place they’d been.
We enjoyed this delightful camaraderie.Together in our creativity. Sharing with one another as we drew and painted. Conversation flowed effortlessly between the gifted and not so gifted. Everyone worked at making something. Every woman tried.
It didn’t matter how our pieces turned out. There was a sense of beauty in each of them. None were perfect. If we’d wanted perfect, we could purchase pots from a store, created in a factory, where every item was the same.
The beauty was in the little imperfections. The squiggly lines or blobbed paint. We shared in a time where we all participated. A common goal of creating a memory.
All different. All special. All a little imperfect.
God created us for community. Where we contribute, with a willingness to work together, encourage one another, treat each other with deference.
There’s a beautiful unity in community.
Even in its imperfections.
It’s something we can all get fired up about.