I've turned the page in my life. One chapter falls away, pages scented with lilac, bleached by the sun, wrinkled by tears. Crisp new pages, with even lines, flawless pages lie ahead of me, waiting for the messy pen of my life to blot the clean whiteness with dark, black ink. Ink that stains and won't wash away, it spills over the clean, straight lines, tainting the tips of my fingers black. Ink is permanent, is forever.
No amount of tears will wash the stained pages clean, no amount of sun will make the deep black fade. But with the stains comes abstract beauty. Beauty of a life well lived, not one held in fear, but one marked with the courage to write on the pages, with the courage to push on despite knowing the ink will stain forever.
I'm on my own now, alone. Independent. A summer of the next stage of my life. The stage is mopped, the lights are primed and ready to single me out. Will I dance on this stage? Or will I succumb to the open eyes, the staring gazes of an audience waiting for you to trip and fall, bringing your production to a screeching halt?
Maybe I will fall, a great fall of gasps, cries, bruised knees, and torn clothes. The dance will fail, the lights will shine cruelly down, brining my humiliation and tears into stark, harsh reality. It's all quite possible. I'm may flounder through my steps, I may trip and fall, I may turn right when the music calls for a turn left. There are so many ways I could fail at this complex dance of life. But I forget that the dance is not mine alone, there are other dancers who trip and fall, who pick me up when I've fallen, who wipe my tears and carry me when my feet are too swollen for my shoes.
But I can say I've danced. Maybe it's not a dance but more of a stumbling crawl across the extravagant stage. Maybe my fears will rule me, trapping me in the dark recess of stage right, hidden by thick curtains, watching the dancers move like graceful swans across their stage. I want to dance.
And I will dance. I will dance to my own music, with my own steps, be it wild and crazy, subdued and timid, or uncoordinated and awkward. I will not dance to the music of others, or the the steps they think I should follow. I will dance a dance that I create. It's my dance and I will dance.
Just like these pages. They are my pages and no one can stain them except me. No one can write in them except me. Every stain is by my own hand, every blot has a story in my life. And only I can understand the uniqueness of the stains. Only I can see the beauty in the ugliness that I have wrought. Because He makes everything beautiful. There is beauty in every stain, every scar, every torn page or crinkled tear mark.
A new chapter awaits, and the blank pages are daunting, but with the Light at my side I will press on, touch my pen to the paper and let the ink flow, a glistening, shimmering stream in the light. Ugliness made beautiful by the Light.