This was Emily Dickinson’s desk.
Makoto Fujimara says this is all the space one needs to change culture. He reminds us to create in quiet – to usher in holy by letting the soil ruminate.
Because every good farmer knows the best kind of soil goes through many winters.
And I sit there and wonder – what does my soil look like? When I sift through it, does magic come of it – do I sit long enough to let Him whisper through me? Do I run to the approval of others in order to figure out if what I’ve created is any good?
I’m not sure I like the answers.
I’m not sure I understand the importance of allowing my soil to sit through winter. That sounds uncomfortable. It sounds like it stings a little bit. But I know it’s true. Know it in the marrow of my bones where I feel the burning when it’s time to speak.
I listen to Fujimara, and think of Dickinson’s small desk, and am fairly certain I’ve been doing it wrong.
Because my desk? It’s not just the wooden desk hiding in a closet. Far too often, my desk stretches to others – far too often I let the fear of what they may think or how I will be viewed take precedence.
I let things like artistry turn into platform. Things like followers turn into leverage.
And almost immediately, things like my words disappear.
Isn’t it amazing? Countless times in Scripture we’re reminded that much will be made of the little, but here we are, aching to be big again. We stretch our desks to as big as we can make them, and try to set fire to someone else’s when we see they’ve got a broader scope.
We’re like the modern day Tower of Babel – stretching as far as we can out of soil spent.
Listen closely :: it doesn’t have to be this way.
If you have words, write them. If you have brush strokes, paint them. But by all means – do it out of your winters. Do it from your desk that spans no more than a few inches and fight the urge to spread wide the knowledge.
Keep it holy. Keep it quiet.
And when you’re finished, scatter the seeds wide and watch them grow.
I.N.J.
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