You do not create art
You do not not create art
because others do not reciprocate your feelings about your art.
My art is mine to hold.
The world is welcome to participate at any time,
to hold it as their own.
I do not love
I do not not love
because others do not reciprocate my feelings about my love.
You love because it holds you.
I am not welcome to love at any time,
I do love, even when you do not.
We create our worlds using tools acquired from past and recurring experiences. If only we could clearly deconstruct them – lay out our actions, behaviors and beliefs as tangible objects on the floor – examine for flaws, cracks, wear and tear so that we might attempt to repair the damage. Which is a distraction from reality – the damage having already made a home for itself. The desire is not to fix the moments that lay in our wake but rather prevent new ones from formulating from the same faculties that have alluded us. It’s less about change, more about uncovering the mystery; what keeps us at arm’s length from full awareness, hazy and all too trusting of what is?
Leaves float softly to the ground,
and I stand there – ankles deep
in a puddle, the breeze wrapping
its arms around my waist –
wondering if it is you,
sending me leaves
placing pools of water in my
opening my tired eyes to the
moving world around me.
if it is you,
pulling strings over my head,
breathing gently in my direction –
and thank you.
I’m tangled in branches, coated in dirt, wrapped in leaves that embrace parts of me I cannot see. The far-off echo of birdsong guides me to clear waters in the dark dusk of early morning; before the sun’s rays have had the chance to dance quietly upon mountain ranges or reflect hues into deep oceans and traveling rivers. I hold still – listening for the wind to carry hope to me from somewhere I have not been.