The sky glows a sullen gray and intermittent tears fall from these heavy clouds. And two families are rummaging through our rental home trying to decide if they are going to take up where we leave off in mid-September.
We have no idea where we are going. This isn't new. This is the norm. And I hate it. These people put a fine point on the transient nature of life. This situation pushes in on thoughts about life, my standing on the rim of old age. This life always invites to sip of bitter wine. I do so reluctantly. I do so, because the alternative is unthinkable. . . most days.
And the odd thing about the disappointments and brokenness of life is its capacity for creative expression. In the 50-some years I've been here I've seen so many sad situations, so many tragic moments. It makes me pause. And when I'm alone, I think, rave, rage, and eventually concede to the stored tears. Sometimes I'm reduced to despair. But sometimes mercy leaks into the moment and I am able to work on a painting or sit down to compose a song.
Maybe the reason the creativity comes is because at the core of things I recognize there is more than bone and gristle to this life. Miraculously, there is something eternal wrapped within the heartbeat of this planet and the ordinary everyday created things. Somehow this makes sense. There are hints, left like a trail of breadcrumbs or maybe a trail of blood. Hints to the smaller meanings.
But like the deepest reaches of the sea, it's the profoundly disturbing sorrows that remain beyond intelligibility. And most days that leaves me feeling lost. It leaves me yelling, "I want to buy a vowel!," something to make this bearable.
So the real challenge is to be willing to keep seeing the flickering good emanating from those smaller parts of life. It's an act of faith to pull out the brush and paint the little things. It's an act of faith to write about the ordinary. And ultimately, it's an act of humility to get up every day and live out the day as you are made. But it's also an act of courage to live well. Because ultimately none of us gets out of this alive. It's how we respond to that prospect and process that makes all the difference.
It's interesting to see the art from The Painted Soul used to illustrate the latest uncertainty in our lives. Like any melancholy piece, it fits perfectly. But beauty can't stay hidden-- the painting is alive with color, with energy, with (dare I say it?) a joyful undercurrent even in the midst of all that pain. Perhaps this is just my perception, but I know that it's impossible to give into despair when beauty continues to shine in both your painting and your writing. I love the last paragraph-- I'm copying it into my quotes book.
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