Knowing takes time
When I placed the order for materials to make paper flowers, I had to wait a week for delivery.
It was disappointing, but I did what I probably wouldn't have done had the materials arrived sooner ... read the book I borrowed from the library (the whole book, not just a chapter here or a passage there, the whole book), watched some videos (thank goodness), and found lots of examples of what's possible with paper flowers. Amazing.
And then the paper arrived.
I waited until the next day to get started, suddenly seized by doubt and overwhelm. The anticipation was over, now it was time to do the work.
It's hard being a beginner
Deep in crepe paper with sticky fingers, glue on my clothes, and scraps of snipped paper all over the place, I found myself mired doubt. This might be too much, I told myself.
And I pouted ... wondering if it really was all too much.
But, after multiple breaks to wash the glue from my fingers, a lot of deep breaths, and three hours of concentration, I had my first flower. A white cosmos.
The finished flower was such an accomplishment. It's given me the incentive to keep going. To keep trying.
Eager to see how well I did, I took the paper flower up the street and nestled it in among the real ones growing on the corner lot.
I'm working on my second flower and feeling the same doubts ... is this worth it? Do I really want to pursue this? I'm not sure, but I do know what I need to do:
Give it time.
It would be easy to give up now. I'm frustrated and want quick results, but I know better.
It's a familiar feeling. The same feeling I get when I start writing ... this newsletter, a letter to a pen pal, and just every other writing project.
It's the feeling I got when I was painting room after room in the house these past few months. And so many other projects.
But I've learned: staying with it matters.
Is there something you're ready to bail on? Would it be better to hang in there a bit longer?
Sometimes, it is good to say, "Nah, I think I'm done." But other times, we just need to dig a little deeper, hang in a little longer.
After all, you never know how things might blossom ...
My second flower, the thistle, is a work in progress. The purple bits are too long, but I'm afraid to cut them. Afraid I'll cut too much and regret it. So I'm leaving it alone for a while. But I'm not giving up ... yet.
Exploring the art and writing of short story memoir