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Begin.

Start.

New. 

Where to start?  She questioned herself as she stared at an untouched piece of paper.  She was the only person there, and yet she felt as though that faceless piece of paper was staring right back at her.  She curiously searched around the room looking for signs of life.  Nope, she was definitely alone this evening.  All that accompanied her was a new tin filled with new charcoal sticks waiting to meet the newly compressed tree pulp. 

She tentatively brought her vine charcoal up to her sketch pad.  A sketch pad that was fresh and ready to be filled with everything that her heart desired.  However, tonight she couldn’t seem to quite figure out what exactly it was that her heart wanted.  Her hand dropped before the carbon chunk could even leave a hint of dust on the white slab that lay in front of her.

Empty.

Blank.

Vast. 

This shouldn’t be so hard, she thought.  There were no rules. She could do whatever she wanted.  In theory there was nothing holding her back, and yet she was paralyzed.  Afraid to make a move.  Afraid to start.  It was as if her newfound freedom was actually making her feel more trapped than ever before.  She had no clue what to do or where to begin. 

She knew what lay in front of her was opportunity.  The charcoal was waiting and willing to create beauty and space and form and line and breathe life into that paper.  The two wanted to mingle.  They wanted to dance together.  They wanted to make art. 

Instead, all she could see was an empty space that seemed to go on forever.  It was almost as if there was too much at once.  So she was waiting.  Waiting for something to tell her what to do, but for some reason, nothing was speaking to her.  Nothing was grabbing her attention.  So, the paper and the charcoal continued to lie there, still and motionless.

Doubt.

Fear.

Unknown. 

I can’t do this. The struggle with herself began.  I’m that afraid that I’m not brave enough to create something strong and powerful.  What if I don’t remember how?  What if I screw it up?  What if it turns out all wrong? Her heart ached because she so strongly wanted to start over.  She wanted to start fresh.  It was just the thought of the unknown and the fear of failure that made her uneasy. 

And yet, here she was.  There was no turning back at this point. She had retired the old drawings and the old sketchbooks.  While they were not completely gone, they no longer fit in her life.  They were the past and she was determined to move forward with something new.  Something that she hoped would lead to a re-building of her dreams and perhaps a re-building her life.  But suddenly all the responsibility of having all those dreams in her own hands made the task a little daunting and a little frightening.  This time, if things didn’t go right, she could only blame herself.   She was beginning to wonder if she had made the right decision and if she was really cut out for all this. She didn’t want to regret what she had done, but all of this was starting to make her feel incredibly alone.  A feeling she was not entirely sure she was comfortable with.

Alone.

Lost.

Unsure. 

Well, looks like nothing is going to happen tonight.  Her head was beginning to ache with all the doubts that were running through her mind, and her eyes stung from staring at the white sheet in front of her.  The whole thing was making her feel exhausted and frustrated and she hadn’t even started yet.  She looked down at her hands.  Without so much as making one line in her sketchbook, she had still managed to get her hands filthy.  They were marred with black soot.    

She uncrossed her legs from their Indian-style position and warily got herself up off the floor, being extra careful not to leave traces of her unsuccessful night on the carpet or the white walls of her new apartment.  She slowly made her way back toward her bathroom.  There ws no hurry.  Nothing was giving her the desire to move forward any bit faster than a sauntering pace. 

As the water flowed and washed away the charcoal residue on her hands, the cool wetness became enticing.  She bent over her sink and splashed the water in her face.  She repeated the refreshing act a few times until she was satisfied and blindly reached for the hand towel to her left.  Patting her face dry, she examined her reflection in the mirror.  She studied herself closely, watching her eyes re-adjust to the light as her pupils narrowed.  Their color matched the very drawing utensil she had been trying to use that evening.   She was struck by their vast darkness and drawn in by how they seemed to go on forever, leading into the unknown. But what lay beyond them was a wonder.  A curiosity. 

She let her gaze expand past her eyes and she looked at the parts of her own image. There was something there.  There was a beauty. There was space.  There was form. There was line.  There was life.

Beauty.

Hope.

Possibility. 

She threw down her towel, completely neglecting its usual hook, and briskly returned to her living room.  The sketch pad and the charcoal tin still lay in the middle of her floor like two individuals of a destined couple just waiting to be united.   She collected her things and returned to the bathroom.  Once she had laid down her tin and propped her pad between herself and the edge of the counter, her eyes returned to the mirror.  They would never leave there again until the end of the night.  Where to begin? she questioned.  I’ll start with myself, she answered.  

After all, it was her drawing to screw up and not anyone else’s.