A Pocketful of Fears

Ten days ago, when I committed myself to this blog, I had reservations.  Excitement turned to anxiety, which quickly turned to hesitancy, then alarm!  Holy crap!  You mean I have to dip into my creative well and ladle out a short but entertaining piece on a regular basis?

I glanced sidelong.

The Gallery of Eyes waited for my next move.  Will he take up the challenge? spoke their collective glare.  Will he sacrifice a part of himself to serve the greater good?  Will he, at last, answer the call to duty?

I’ve never been a big fan of The Gallery of Eyes.  They speak in riddles and sometimes it’s best to just ignore their inferences than to try and puzzle them out.  But, this time, the heat of their gaze was particularly searing and I thought, Okay, if not now, then when?  Later?  How much later?  Until later becomes too late?  Until too late becomes never?

Jump back twenty years…

My father played piano, taught himself off old records when he was a kid.  His large, calloused hands danced across the keyboard as light and as graceful as a magician performing tricks.  He was faking it, of course.  He was born with a natural ear for music (something handed down to me, which I thank him for).  He was also born with a natural inclination toward alcohol and, later in life, he was well known in a lot of the area drinking holes.  Some of these drinking holes had a piano sitting off in the corner that he would play when the mood struck and he was feeling particularly good.  One evening, I was told, the owner of one of these establishments offered him a job, a couple nights a week to come in and play and entertain the folks.  Not only did my father refuse the offer, it scared him so much he never went back to that particular place.

Now, my father loved to play piano; it was one of his gifts.  He entered a world of his own when he played.  And when he was “on” it was something special to hear.  So why wouldn’t he want to share that with everyone?

The writer in me understood where he was coming from.  Creativity cannot be commanded at will.  Creativity is spontaneous and organic.  It needs to exist when it wants to exist.  To try and bottle it and package it and control its distribution is to destroy its very essence!

Jump back to the present…

Bullshit.

I realize now it wasn’t any overwhelming sense of moral outrage or artistic purism that kept my father from sharing his gift.  It was fear.  Fear of performing.  Fear of being judged.  Fear of not living up to the expectations others had for him.

One of my father’s pet expressions was to say, “At least when I die, I’ll die with a pocketful of principles.”  My father also died with a pocketful of fears, and a pocketful of talent he never allowed himself to share.

Most of all, it was fear of being seen by all those eyes that watch and wait for others to do what they either cannot do, for lack of talent, or are afraid to do, for lack of courage.  I’ll grant my father that one.  Putting oneself on public display is not the same as performing in front of the relative safety of family and friends.  It takes courage to step into the spotlight.  What’s the worst that could happen?  You fail.  And if you fail, then what?  You quit?

No, you simply try again.

The Gallery of Eyes is whispering.  I’ve never heard them speak before.  It must be their eyelashes beating together in anticipation.

To be honest, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this.  It’s just that I’ve never been that honest with myself.  It’s time I start.

When I die, I want my pockets to be empty.

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