It’s rare that I show anything before it is finished. I say things like “I’m afraid the magic will disappear,” but closer to the truth, I’m just afraid. I may want to change my mind. The direction. Start over even. It’s something to be so vulnerable. 

Maybe there’s less consequence with my sketchbook. Or maybe it’s because I can’t really change things. The paper won’t allow a big do-over. And there in lies the beauty, I suppose. To be ok with this being ok. Oh, I still try my best, of course, but not everything has to be a masterpiece. I suppose what a lesson to be learned for living. 

I’m reminded of Grandma Elsie’s kitchen. I mean this with all love and respect and a lot of admiration — what a mess. But she was fine with it. She could cook with chubby hands grabbing at both apron and attention. With grown men anxiously waiting to return to the field. With grown women trying to decipher a recipe while scribbling on cards. With pots boiling over and dishes stacking up in the sink. And wasn’t it magic? And wasn’t it always good? Yes. Perhaps even better because of it.

So I pull this knowledge out of the pocket carried for years and miles, and I show you my unfinished work. And I am vulnerable. And I am happy. And it is good.