A Letter to the Artist With Little Self-Confidence

    I wrote this on 11:11, and I had two wishes. One, that you, a sister yet a stranger, stumble over this today. And I know you have read so many letters; some of which may have torn your heart apart, but this one is different. This one is from me. And I once had a broken heart too; fears and doubts and self-pity poke on it like little needles on a daily basis. We don’t like needles, except for sewing buttons and holes. But, maybe, if you grow stronger fingers, you’ll have the courage to pull all those needles away. Use them to stitch the little gaps instead. I did. You can do it too.

    My second wish? I hope your sewn-in, patched-on, doubting heart will become so whole and full that you’ll run out of room to keep all the nice and warm things inside. I hope it bursts into the world at the tips of your fingers. I hope they see your light. I hope everything you touch becomes art. But we’re not there yet, right?

Hold on. Here’s what I wanted to tell you:

Don’t put that brush down, darling

It’s beautiful. It’s odd.

It’s irregular, just like you

    and the pigment on your skin, the warts on your arms like little gems

    you always wanted to pick and pull away

An Artist put it there; it is not an accident

    that you are brown or yellow or black, it wasn’t paint spill

    you are carefully planned, like a blueprint of the house God plans to live in

You are a temple. Sacred. Cared for.

And humans don’t really know the things that are priceless; we throw rocks,

    never knowing

    they are diamonds from within

Under your skin, there’s something strong and shining and unbreakable, not bones

    but brilliance

Don’t hide it. Don’t put yourself away like the paper you crumpled, no

    you are not flimsy

    or fragile

    only irregular, just as everyone else

You shout with lines and patterns and colors into the world

You are an art making art and it’s all that matters