I Tried to Make My Life a Work of Art

I spent a life
whittling off pieces of myself—
a corner, a sharp edge, a dark stain in honey wood—
in response to any opposition—
a question, a misunderstanding, a different approach

I clutched my knife
to my chest so hard
there was a little hollow
above my heart

I spent a life
making myself a masterpiece,
holding my knife so tightly
because I know you can’t avoid getting cut,
just who does the cutting
and I assumed my cuts would be kinder
than anyone else’s

only, I gripped so hard my skin split,
calluses popped, my fingers bled
and now my perfect careful carving
is covered in red

you stepped through the door,
saw the mess—
the knife, the blood, the discarded shards—
and cupped your hands over my heart—
the wounds, the ruptures, the faltering beat 

you said: 
not every question 
is a judgment
not every judgment
is a truth

then you took a knife
from your own pocket
and a stick
from the other
and showed me the little treasures,
the engineering marvels,
you can make when you hold your knife
with a softer touch

I spent a life
whittling myself down
now maybe it is time
to build myself back up

maybe I am not a marble block
or a wizard’s staff
but a tree, pruned, yes, and growing—
new life, new buds, new second chances—
at the mercy of other, wiser forces—
the sun, the wind, the tender gardener 

There’s a quote by Henry James in A Portrait of a Lady (which I read voluntarily one summer in high school—yes, I was a lot of fun) that formed the foundation for my young adult life:

“Don’t you remember my telling you to make your life a work of art?”¹

I thrilled at the words. I was, like most teenagers, hungry for an anthem. I wanted a motto I could tattoo onto my soul, a password to unlock life, a north star.

Make your life a work of art seemed like a pretty good option.

I loved the focus on beauty over practicality or utility that this idea contained. I was already wrestling with the pull to fill up the coffers of my identity with achievements and accomplishments, completed to-do lists and gold-embossed awards. I was a straight-A student and an oldest daughter, and I could already tell that I could lose myself in the validation of maxing out rubrics or making responsible decisions.

But a work of art—ah, now. That signaled a life beyond grades and resumes and mainstream success. That contained mystery and passion, midnight adventures and acts of heroic courage. It promised a life that echoed another favorite quote of mine at the time: “I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.”² (Is there a better articulation of the angst of teenhood to be found?) It depicted a life where money and promotions and Ivy League transcripts weren’t the ultimate good.

I’m so glad I had a sense even then that stories were better templates for a life than checklists. I don't mock my younger self for her idealistic dreams or simplistic understanding of what makes something art. But I skipped past the part of the quote that I am no longer sure about: “make your life a work of art.”

I don't think I could have recognized this at the time, but I also loved this quote because it gave me agency. It held out my life before me like a block of marble, with the ghost of Michelangelo crooning in my ear: Carve. Uncover the David that is within. Take up your tools. Create. Not just agency, but sovereignty: You are captain of your ship, master of your fate. What your life becomes is up to you.

We all long to know, in Maximus’s ringing words, that what we do in life echoes in eternity. Especially, I think, when we are at the cusp of adulthood, when we are handed more of the reins and our steeds buck and bolt beneath us, we want to know that we can do this. We can do this thing called life. I did, at least. I was daunted at the thought of adulthood and yet I also craved meaning, craved assurance that my decisions mattered—and I was excited that more independence would give me the chance to make those decisions.

Then adulthood came, and it was not what I expected. I was not young and strong and free. The world was not my oyster. The chisel fell from my limp hands. I turned away from the block of marble I had been told was my life, betrayed.

It wasn't just the chronic pain that struck my senior year of high school, although that certainly forced me to confront these things much sooner than I would have. I think it is just part of growing up: You realize that there are limitations surrounding you like laser beams, ready to sever any number of rosy dreams or naive ideals from your surprisingly frail body at the slightest movement. Mysterious illnesses arrive, freak accidents happen. Somehow you just can't find your place in any social group. You can't figure out what you want to do. Expected next steps that seem easy for everyone else take you years or just don't happen at all. There are family emergencies, global pandemics, nation-wide recessions. On top of all that, you come to face with the hordes of childhood wounds and generational brokenness that prove that even if willpower was your only obstacle, even that would probably undo you.

Make your life a work of art? I couldn’t make minimum wage. I couldn’t even make a small little work of art, much less transform my whole life into one.

I became resistant to any hint of self-help culture, to diets and exercise programs and even spiritual disciplines. Most of the time, I realized, jaded at age twenty-one, we don't have control. We have best practices, and then we have luck. I still thought that luck was held within God's hands. I probably would have quickly caveated the term with “what I really mean is God's providence.” But I felt like I had been thrown out of the atmosphere into the heartless cold of space, staring down my own insufficiency.

It turns out we don’t make our lives. I told myself there was freedom in this idea, and there is.

That was my personal reformation. And now, maybe, I have arrived at a counter-reformation. I still shake my head at this quote, but more gently. I laugh a little. I still don't think we make our lives, not completely. We are certainly not the primary sculptors. But I am less defeatist about the idea that we are being made. That thought now gives me hope. Maybe it's because I have settled into a better understanding—or a better experience—of the interplay between God's agency and mine. He may be the unmoved mover but I still choose which tools to take up and which to lay down. I choose to surrender.

Or do I? How much of that is me and how much is the Spirit, is grace? What even is me anymore? Aren’t I dead and raised, hidden in God?

I don’t know how the complexities our identities in God, human will and divine will, shake out. I just know that I have seen the sculptor work for long enough now that I trust him more.

This poem settles into a new metaphor: not dead wood but growing life. Maybe I am not marble to be sculpted or a stick to be whittled but rather a seed into a shoot into a bud into—who knows? A vine, a bush, a tree? All the mystery I loved in the idea of a work of art is still here, but perhaps the striving to achieve it can be laid to rest, buried in rich dirt under a gracious sun.

I am being made into a work of art, day by day. What else is there to say but thanks be to God?

---

In Other Words…

You can read my Plough article “Citizen of Two Kingdoms” online for free here!

isn't the art so beautiful?

And for new subscribers who came from that article, welcome! I'm so glad you're here. My most recent poem “body positivity” might be interesting to you, as it relates to what I discuss in the article: bodies and health and how God views them. And thank you all for your comments on that poem—it was exciting to see that it struck a chord, and I'm looking forward to more conversations about this. How lucky I am to get to explore these things with you!

Goodreads (book reviews) 📚

I finally finished The Master and His Emissary, which feels like quite a feat! I’m especially proud of my (long overdue) review of The Secret History, and it was a delight to revisit some excellent YA historical fiction with Ruta Sepetys.

• The Master and His Emissary: The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World by Iain McGilchrist | 4 stars

• The Secret History by Donna Tartt | 4 stars

• The Fountains of Silence by Ruta Sepetys | 4 stars

• I Must Betray You by Ruta Sepetys | 4 stars (reread)

On a personal update, thank you so much to those who prayed for my visa application to Canada—a couple days after I resubmitted it, it got approved! So now things are really moving ahead, and I'm sure the many emotions involved in making a major move and life transition will show up here some form or another in the coming months. ;)

to staying awake—

Aberdeen

1. A quick Google search tells me these specific words are not in James’s corpus so either I miscopied them or am misattributing them—but the fact that this sentence is seared into my mind is what matters!

2. The internet assures me that this one, at least, is correctly attributed to Virginia Woolf.