The Quiet Art of Becoming

I have a drawing I'm not done with. It's just sitting on my desk. Some parts are colored in. Some parts are just pencil lines. Sometimes I think I'm like that drawing.

I'm not finished yet. I don't think anyone is.

I remember when I fell off my bike. My knee was all red, and it hurt so bad. Now there's a little white mark there. It's a part of me. It's like I colored in that spot with a white crayon.

And I remember when my friend moved. We cried. My chest felt empty for a long time. That empty feeling is a part of me too. It's like a big gray spot in the drawing. It makes the bright colors look brighter.

There are good parts. Like when my mom hugs me for no reason. Or when I see a really good dog. Those feel like yellow and orange colors. They make me feel warm inside.

I used to want to be all done. To be a finished drawing that someone could hang up. But I don't think that's how it works.

You just keep getting new crayons. New things happen. A scraped knee. A new friend. A sad movie. And you just add more color. More lines.

It's a quiet kind of growing. It happens when you're not even looking. One day you just feel a little bigger. A little more of you.