I like my cave.
My cave is warm and filled with coffee and the occasional chocolate.
No one lives here but me. I am enough.
I create things of beauty and light and wonder.
I don’t wonder if I am good enough or original enough or artsy enough.
My creations make me happy.
But then, I peek outside, and see All The Others do All The Things, Things that are BIGGER and BETTER than I can ever make them, and I feel so small. And my creations are nothing but misshapen lumps in my hands. I let them go and they drop with a thud.
I shuffle back into my cave.
My cave that is no longer warm but cold and I huddle in a corner.
But now instead of just me, a great many Others fills my cave.
They crowd me.
I am lonely.
My creations peek into my cave. They call to me.
I resist. I remember the small feelings, and how they can hurt.
One by one, my creations return to me. I refuse to see them. But they refuse to go until they are seen.
And little by little, I see them.
And I see they are not misshapen lumps after all. They are just different from All the Others’ Things.
And even so, their form is not the point, not the goal in itself. Creating them is.
I am happy when I create them, and in that moment, the creation is a thing of beauty and light and wonder.
I remember this truth, and I crowd out All the Other voices.
And I see that All the Other voices is just my own insecure voice echoing around my cave.
And when I stop speaking my insecurities, they disappear and I am just me again.
In my warm cave filled with coffee and the occasional chocolate.
And I see that I am enough.