My fingers glide over the keys, the melody springing forth like water from my soul.  All the things I can never say, they are alive in in the keys beneath my fingertips.  I am lost in the moment, in the expression.  I am alone in this wide, empty room, in this wide, empty life- except for the music.  It fills the corners, it resounds in the rafters, it envelopes me, it is me.

Then I am a dancer, my long arms extending and my figure reaching and curving as the music floats around me.  I am led by it, gently forming my body to its tempo.  I glide across the room, stretching and leaping with the crescendos, bending and folding in the descending tones.  My fingers are notes, my feet the rhythm, my body is the score of music come to life.

Then I am the writer, and my hands wield the music in ink, sending words dancing across the page.  Life flows out in prose, in pirouettes and and jumps of beautiful language.  I call them to the page, willing them to fill the room, to fill the mind. I cannot stop while the music plays.  As it spins around me, I must capture every note, follow every measure.   Because soon it will be gone.

The piece will be done.  The beauty that is born in the quietest, most solitary places of the soul does not last forever.  Each moment begins,  and blossoms, and then closes. Life begins, and blossoms, and then closes.

We are artists, each of us, in our own way.  We have this one chance to capture our fleeting humanity.  One big, beautiful blank space to convey the joys and sorrows and fears and wonders of it all.  If we do not, and the music isn’t played and the dancers aren’t moving and the words aren’t written… then there is nothing but silence and emptiness.  And that will break us.

So dance. or sing.  or write or paint or grow a flower or send a letter or bake some bread or wear a scarf– whatever it is that reaches you, that stirs you.  Don’t be afraid of the artistry of your life.  It is one of a kind, and beautiful to those around you.