Sculpture by Ken M. White
Winter gloom and darkness
turn the heart.
Blow Lent’s trumpet if you must,
and tremble.
But before you mourn in solemn assembly
remember
that these ashes
were once profligate palms
that welcomed Love.
Huddle in your prayer closet
marked with ashes as you may,
Love will see you
and prick your heart.
For February’s snow wraps the earth
as wanton Love embraces all its inhabitants.
I am awake now
I cocooned myself in sheets
relishing dreams
bidding my mind drowse back
into foggy meandering.
At 9:30, I thought,
“This is ridiculous,”
and pulled on yesterday’s jeans.
(I still wore yesterday’s t-shirt.)
I straightened the sheets,
pulled the covers back up,
and made the bed
into a semblance of respectability.
Soon I found myself,
left side plastered to the bedcover
head drowning in the pillow,
not curled up but definitely curved
By 10:30 I had fought myself
to the point of wandering
into the sunshine
on the cottage deck.
“This is ridiculous,”
I told myself again.
“I should be accomplishing something.
I must be productive.”
Re-heating the coffee from last night’s pot,
I picked up my computer
and shuffled back to the deck,
my body still complaining, “Bed!”
Instead, I turned to my chair
and plopped myself down
ready to write
ready to get something done.
I hadn’t noticed the water
ready as well,
pooled in the seat
from yesterday’s rain.
I am awake now.
The oil painting above my piano reminds me of lessons I too easily forget. Row upon row, the gray brush strokes, roughly an inch square, contain subtle elements of color. The color comes from a painting I wanted to paint—and attempted to. But the painting came from learning to let go of ideal notions that constrained me so I could allow experience to inspire something better.
Long, long ago, at a liberal arts college far, far away, a class of earnest, would-be artists, took a painting course to develop what they hoped might be talent. They discovered that painting entailed more than standing at the easel wearing a beret. They learned about color and line and to notice what wasn’t there as well as what was. They filled sketch books to practice the art of seeing their world beyond the obvious. Continue reading