It's never too late
after winter must come spring
While attending an event at the wonderful MLK Jr. Memorial Library (the central library of Washington DC) a few weeks ago, I received a copy of the radiant children’s book Ablaze With Color, by Jeanne Walker Harvey and Loveis Wise.
It’s the story of painter Alma Thomas, to whose work I was introduced through the marvelous Alma W. Thomas: Everything is Beautiful exhibit at the Phillips Collection here in DC a few years ago. I felt instantly drawn to her vibrantly colorful art and intrigued by her journey as an art teacher, creator of art community in DC and world-famous painter.
But what I had forgotten until opening up Ablaze With Color is that Alma didn’t start focusing on her own art until she was almost 70.
It was in her twilight years that she became the first Black woman to have a solo show at The Whitney. Posthumously, the Obamas displayed one of her paintings in the White House, another first for a Black woman.
Ablaze With Color now lives on my desk.
It reminds me that it’s never too late to pursue the path of artist and creative.
It’s never too late to make the leap and to do the things that light our souls ablaze with color.
It’s never too late.
Lately, the reminder has seemed particularly needed.
Ever since the birth of Assemblage, I’m proud to say that I’ve stuck to my commitment to write and publish an essay every Monday at 6am (ET). Well…with the exception of one week in which I was a couple of days late, which I presume that no one other than myself noticed.
I’ll celebrate this as an accomplishment, while simultaneously admitting that it hasn’t been easy.
I figured that delivering a weekly essay would require a shift in my writing practice. I told myself that I would wake up an hour earlier than usual every day to write, implying that I would also go to bed an hour earlier than usual each night. I also aimed to put together a forward-looking editorial calendar for the quarter ahead, to work further on the actual craft of writing and to grow my publication and my reach.
But guess what?
I’ve failed, on pretty much all counts.
I’ve woken up early to write precisely zero times. Instead, I’ve been eeking it out in mad dashes to the “finish line,” often staying up until the wee hours on Sunday night and kicking myself for it on Monday morning - the start of my work week. While I’m proud of what I’ve produced, my rhythms have been inconsistent, frenzied and not particularly healthy.
In addition, I haven’t managed to devote the time I planned towards either craft or growth. I’m several weeks behind in the “For the Joy and the Sorrow” writing intensive that I’m doing with the wonderful Jeannine Ouellette’s Writing in the Dark community. I have yet to update my ‘About’ page, welcome e-mail and several other Substack bells and whistles. I haven’t actively been looking for publication and collaboration opportunities.
But here’s the thing…
I’m a work in progress.
As I suspect we all are.
Increasingly, I’m realizing that this means choosing to give ourselves grace and to focus on how far we’ve come rather than on how far we still have to go.
In my case, I’m acknowledging that creative discipline feels like a challenging endeavor at the moment, amidst all that’s happening. Not the least of which is the fascist takeover of my country and the implosion of our democracy. In these circumstances, there are moments in which writing is a balm, a tool, a conduit for expressing rage, grief, fear. But in others, I’m flabbergasted. The words don’t come. I hit the snooze button. I retreat.
I’m also learning that writing, like any creative practice, is an alchemy between input and output. There are days – or weeks or months or perhaps even years – when it seems more natural to observe, to listen, to taste, to absorb. There are seasons in which we sow and others in which we reap.
My recent time in Paris was a powerful reminder of this. The order of the day was art (I loved the Wax exhibit at the Musee de l’Homme) and sweet reunions with old friends and colleagues who’ve known me for close to two decades, in some cases. Goat cheese salad and French onion soup in warm bistros and soaking in the vistas, nooks and crannies and energy of this singularly beautiful city that used to be my home (in case you missed it: here’s last week piece about walking down memory lane in the 18th arrondissement). Filling up my cup, in so many ways.
When this essay lands, it’ll be the dawn of a new week. In DC, winter doesn’t seem to want to loosen its grip, though there are signs of its retreat. The peak of the cherry blossoms has been announced for the end of the month. It’s a special time, early spring: the season of promise, of tenderness, of ascent, of hope and renewal.
All of those things seem to be in short supply at the moment, to say the least. The chaos around us is spiraling and incessant, and it seems that we wake each Monday morning already battered and bruised, wondering what the hell is coming next. Like many of you, I’m trying to resist and do what I can, but it’s hard to fathom how these treacherous tides can or will turn.
And yet.
The days are slowly getting longer. The sun sets in a kaleidoscope of pastels. The air is frigid but the very first buds are taking a timid peek. Fledgling but forward motion.
Spring reminds us that this is our birthright.
So too is the urge to create, to produce, to generate, to make art, to string together words.
And it turns out that, like Alma Thomas, we can be late to the party. Just like we can pause, step away, redirect or reconfigure. This path – like most – isn’t necessarily linear. There are twists and turns, detours and unknowns, losses and wins.
But like the most unlikely spring after the darkest of winters, what’s meant for us will always come.
May we rise to meet it. It’s never too late.
