Making Beautiful

In Mrs. Schultz' classes in grade school we spent one afternoon making marbled paper. A box of pastel colored chalk was shaved to dust over a black, rubber busboy’s tub filled with water. The water was black and still in the tub. When the shaving fell into it, the tiny colored particles separated, some falling deep into the dark water, while others glistened and danced on the surface. When the colors were in place, we used a ruler to make a few gentle cuts across the surface of the water, allowing the chalk dust to swirl together in subtle currents.

She parsed out fine sheets of linen paper to us to decorate. Using paperclips attached to two ends of the paper's edge, we rested the sheets gently on the water. We held tight to the clips while the chalk dust kept the linen sheets from sinking. After several seconds, the paper was removed, then laid over baker’s racks to dry. One sheet at a time, the process continued until an end of the long tables that ran the length of the classroom was covered in chalky, marbled paper.

Sometimes life happens the way those amateur papers were created. The parts of us that seem to be intact and vibrant are sanded down to minuscule pieces and left to float in dark waters. In dark spaces, the heavier parts of ourselves float to the bottom, while the beautiful parts blend with each other and create something new; something that was impossible before we were destroyed.

On days when life is vicious and destructive, I try to remember the quiet movements of twenty-year-old paper over colored dust floating at the surface of an abyss. It’s scary to release what we’ve known, who we’ve loved and lived for. The heavy parts cling to us, bound with shame and hurt, not wanting us to become new and brilliant. But when the weight is too much and we finally let them go, the best colors of those experiences can create something unexpected and beautiful.