On falling.

“There is freedom waiting for you,

On the breezes of the sky,

And you ask "What if I fall?"

Oh but my darling,

What if you fly?” 

― Erin Hanson

I almost distinctly remember the time that I decided I just could not be an artist. It was about 12 years ago on a cold and unbelievably-windy November day in Chicago. I was 18, and I had spent an entire day wandering the galleries at the Art Institute of Chicago's art museum. It was the best day, really. I remember standing in front of beautiful painting after beautiful painting, just staring at brushstrokes--I had never seen real paintings up close like that before, and I could feel them--I could see the artist at work there, and it was almost mind-blowing. I was completely overwhelmed. I wanted to soak it all in. I wanted to be a part of it. But there was this pervasive thought that kept running through my mind: "I could never do this."

I wonder, now, why that thought--"I could never do this"--was the overarching theme I drew from that experience? I've read accounts of other artists who had a similar experience, but came away from it with a vastly different conclusion, namely, "I'm going to do this." I wonder--why wasn't I inspired by all that great artwork? No one around me had ever been anything but supportive. Why did I write myself off so easily?

I think the answer is fear. The dream was just too real, too close to my heart, too vulnerable--I couldn't let it out. It was too risky. What if I tried my hardest and never achieved what I was reaching for? I told myself it wasn't worth the effort, that it wasn't my fault, that I just didn't have enough talent, that I'd never make it. But that, of course, it was okay to keep doing it... just for fun.

That reasoning worked for me for a while. It really did. But it's hard to make much improvement at something while doing it occasionally, just for fun. And there came a time when I realized that if I didn't chase this dream, I would reach the end of my life with one deep regret--that I hadn't tried. 

In all honesty, it's incredibly scary to say what you want and really mean it--authenticity breeds vulnerability, and opens up so much more potential for pain and heartache. But once I reached that point of realization, it really didn't matter anymore if it hurt. I didn't care if I fell. It didn't matter whether I ever "succeeded" at what I was doing. It didn't matter if I never came out with one decent painting in my entire lifetime. It didn't matter if I never became a "real" artist. All that mattered was that I try. Suddenly, no fall, no matter how far, could be as frightening as the thought of having never fallen at all.

So I'm falling. I know there will be stumbling, frustration, and disappointment--over and over and over again. But I'm starting to be okay with it. I used to think "flying" meant success. Nobody could have told that fiercely independent 18-year-old girl anything different (in fact, I think some people tried). But now? I think the flying comes the moment you give yourself the freedom to fall--whether or not you ever chance to meet with your preconceived notions of success.