Tears fell into the paint. The consistency of my heart and fear. Anger arose as my hands trembled across the canvas. A scream for help… desperate… for an answer. I yelled into the universe asking why; Seeking a form of confirmation. Some type of sign or answer that would yield me to never give up. If only You could answer me… If only I could hear You… If only I knew this, my dreams, are what You want me to chase. Red eyes gleaming, my heart astray, and more than anything, I want, I need, to hear You say, I can.

That night I wrote a little somethin…

i could truly scream
at the top of my lungs.
Do you hear me?
I don’t know what to do.
How do I keep going
Pushing on is not an easy task.
I only need your approval
Yours and no one elses
Tears fill my eyes.
For sometimes
I do not know what to do.
Please God… Do you feel my pain.
My hunger…
I want this… you’ve placed this on my heart
Could I be wrong

I got up, turned off the lights, walked dizzily to my bed, and cried myself to sleep. For a brief moment, I thought, would it be to much of a miracle, if you would just type the words “NO”. Could I awake the next morning and see that You answered. I suppose it was. I suppose I had answered the question as quickly as I thought of Your response. There is a deep burning desire within me. A desire to be the best person I can be. Creatively inclined since a child, nothing worthy of acclaim, but my imagination was always ready to play. Whether I used tape cassette cases as Barbie couches or sewed more clothes for Ken and my Kenya doll. I was resourceful, making my imaginary world my reality.

I sat in elementary school, watching a girl draw. I was hypnotized. Amazed of her capabilities. How, who, when, what was she doing? Such a new fangled thing. A pencil could be used to do much more than write my name over and over until it was perfect. Play dough turned into mini pizzas for my dolls as they went to the finest restaurants in town. And my Crayola stamp set, I wanted to treasure all the colors forever. And as I graced middle school, I saw you could turn an old pair of jeans into a bag. A bag that could hold anything I wanted, and that was much more fashionable and practical than my Caboodle.

The first two years of high school I felt out of place. My work was never as good as the one sitting next to me. It was never good in my eye. And trust… I can admit when something is bad… IT WAS. It was as if my imagination was not able to work with the tools in which I was given. Instead of using charcoal, I wanted to play in the pastels like the advance class. My self-portrait looked like a mutilated version of myself in a circus mirror. And whether it was confidence or maturity or just the ability to play with another form of medium… I finally felt at home in the Animation Club and my pottery class. Animation, in short was my victory over all the art classes. My teacher had told me that he had shown, my previous art teachers, my work and they were shocked because I was never extremely inclined in their classes. My pottery teacher told me she wish she could spend more time with me, to help mold me. I was good at something. I had finally claimed victory.

I say all this… because creativity… how ever big or small, has always been apart of my fiber. When I picked up my CanonAE1 for the first time, I fell in love. A bag had been sitting in my bedroom closet for years. My dad had stuff up there that I was not to mess with and I honestly became programmed to ignore it. But every now and then, I wondered what was in that Grey bag. And finally, one day, I took it down.

I’m lost amongst the creative art world. Every facade / medium whether it be paint, glue, sewing, designing, drawing, anything, you name it… every medium to me stands out like diamonds sparkling in the sun. I want to “oooo” and “awww” over each utensil. Explore it’s being, inner and outer.

And as my tears fell across my canvas… I wondered, if I was truly taking the right path. Was I suppose to become a doctor or anything besides what it is I’m trying to achieve now? I wondered if my creative steps were all in vain. I’ve won a few awards and would, today, stand tall next to a few of my photos, but those minor victories, though meaningful, are not what drive me. It is my heart. A heart that I didn’t really believe existed. In that heart, is my Grandmother. A woman who graced the stage, performed, and followed her dreams. She is the reason I can’t give up. I guess, God will never hit me over the head with a direct answer. He does send messages to my heart, though I sometimes am unwilling or incapable of deciphering.

Though my dreams are only evolving, I have decided to focus on the here and now of it all. It’s time for me to step back. In no way am I abandoning my dream. But by letting it go, and putting it in God’s hands, and focusing on the here and now, I’m allowing myself to trust in God. These simple little words impacted me greatly this week, “Follow your heart and it will take you where you need to go.”

I will follow it till the end of my time.

Olisa Rachele