I’ve been staring at a blank page for awhile trying to decide how to begin. I’ve retyped the first line at least a half a dozen times, thinking I should have a catchy hook that draws readers in like my writing teachers instructed me to do in my early years. But, instead, I’ve opted for a raw, real, honest opening just to explain where I am at: although the page still feels blank, I’m making my mark.
A couple weeks ago, I moved to a neighboring state from where I was living to start a new job. Moving in the winter was something I had never done before. Moves in the spring, summer, fall, on the other hand, were all old hat. For this move, I not only needed my winter hat, but gloves, boots and a scarf as well.
The day before the move a fresh snow fall arrived. It was a gentle snow, the kind that some call ‘flurries’, which to me seems to preserve some of the softness about winter. This snow reminded me not every snow is harsh, brutal, pilling down upon the earth and not every winter day is bitter, blistery cold—a slight chill in the air can actually help the snowflakes dance to their destination.
Around noon, I bundled up and took my dog for his usual afternoon walk. He absolutely thrives in the cold. Maybe it’s because of his golden fur coat that keeps him warm on days like this or his wild canine instincts that naturally help him adapt to the outdoors. I trudged in my snow boots closely behind him wondering whether my ancestral instincts would kick in as I longed for nothing more except to be back inside the comfort of the warm house.
Halfway through our journey around the perimeter of the 13-acre property that my parents own, we reached my favorite spot—the field. I love it because it’s wide and open and there’s so much space between the tree line edges that I feel both big and small at the same time. I’ve raced down from the house to the edge of this field to catch glimpses of some of the best sunsets my eyes have ever seen, to witness flashing storm clouds roll over the tops of the pines before the first sound of thunder, and to welcome new born fawns in the springtime hidden by their careful mothers in the tall grass yet to be mowed for the season. When I was younger, I dreamt of building my home in this field next to the apple trees that have been planted there as long as I can remember, so that my children could race out in the summer sun to climb their branches and taste the sweetness of this place. These days, when I long for home, I long for this field.
Covered in snow the day before I left, I looked out across the field of white and thought, snow is a blank canvas, it provides a fresh start. As my dog and I continued to walk along, I happened to look back and see the tracks we were leaving behind us. Fresh pawprints and footprints pressed into the ground said: we took steps here—we made our mark, however lasting or passing our impressions became, for a moment we were there.
I have piles of blank canvases tucked away that are calling to me like this field—to leave my mark. I have pages and papers left white, devoid of words and stories to be expressed because I haven’t taken the step to write, to put pen to paper, to put paint to canvas—to leave my mark.
Blank canvases, new beginnings, fresh starts are all intimating, but so is the thought of never making a mark at all.
So, I’m starting here by writing this. A pledge to myself, and hopefully any of you, that I will move toward making my mark, emboldened to turn blank canvas into beautiful artwork, white pages into life-changing stories, and snowy scenes into spring gardens. Please make sure, too that in making your mark you do not make bruises, rather make impressions that heal.
I believe that you can.
How will you make your mark?
Imagine that.
All my love,
-GM of imaginartist