So, I was messing around, really trying to get this one project off the ground. You know, something that felt... big. Like, Michelangelo-level big in my own tiny world, not that I'm comparing myself, obviously. But the ambition was there, that itch to create something that felt like it almost came from somewhere else, somewhere... divine, I guess.
I remembered reading about Michelangelo, how he'd supposedly stare at a block of marble and just 'see' the figure inside, only needing to chip away the excess stone. Sounds pretty magical, doesn't it? Like God just whispered the whole blueprint straight into his ear. Effortless genius, the kind we all dream about.
So, I gave it a shot. My own version of that, anyway. Not with actual marble, mind you; I'm not that fancy, and my landlord would definitely have something to say about that. It was more like... with lines of code, with paragraphs of text I was trying to write, or even just staring at a blank canvas on my cheap tablet. I sat there. I stared. I really tried to tune in, waiting for that 'divine' whisper, that bolt of inspiration.
And you know what I got for all that effort? Mostly a throbbing headache. And a really strong craving for more coffee. The 'god' part, or whatever you want to call that divine spark, seemed to be on an extended vacation, probably somewhere sunny, not in my cramped little office.
That got me thinking, so I started digging a bit more into Michelangelo's actual life, not just the romanticized stories. And what I found wasn't all divine whispers and seeing angels in stone. Turns out, the dude worked like an absolute dog. He complained constantly about how much his back hurt, how his neck was stiff, paint dripping into his eyes while he was up on that scaffold. It wasn't some serene, magical process. It sounded like pure, brutal, back-breaking labor. He fought with popes over commissions, he struggled with getting the right materials, he probably doubted himself a thousand times a day, just like the rest of us.
That perspective kind of shifted things for me. This whole 'Michelangelo and God' thing, maybe it's not about a direct hotline to the big guy upstairs. Maybe 'God,' or that spark of creation, isn't about a sudden gift. Maybe it's actually in the grind. Maybe it's in the simple act of showing up every single day, pouring in the effort, even when you feel like a complete fraud and absolutely nothing seems to be working.
So, I changed my approach. I stopped waiting for the lightning bolt. I just... started to work. I pushed through the really crappy first drafts. I debugged the horribly buggy code, line by frustrating line. I erased and redrew the awkward lines on my drawings. It wasn't pretty. It definitely didn't feel divinely inspired in that magical, effortless way I'd built up in my head. It was just... effort. Lots and lots of plain old effort.
And slowly, very, very slowly, something began to take shape. It wasn't a Sistine Chapel, not by a million miles. But it was something. And that something, however small, felt good. It felt earned. It felt like my struggle, my own chipping away, not some mysterious gift handed down from on high that I didn't deserve.
So, my whole 'practice' with this 'Michelangelo and God' idea? It ended up being less about me waiting for God to show up and do the work, and more about me understanding Michelangelo the grinder, Michelangelo the worker, Michelangelo the human who just kept going despite everything. And that, weirdly enough, felt a lot more inspiring. It kind of means that maybe, just maybe, the rest of us ordinary mortals have a shot too, if we're just willing to put our heads down and actually do the work.
