And the Seasons, They Go Round and Round
On my nightstand:
It is, you see,
a matter of perspective.
The fact doesn’t change.
It’s the looking that changes.
Once you see, you realize
truth always was
just on the other side
of a tissue-paper wall,
waiting for a rupture,
a flame.
Even spiritual seekers
(supposed to “know better”)
may find it hard to believe
they already are
what they seek.
Jan Frazier, The Freedom of Being; At Ease With What Is
On my easel:
Daylight taps me on the shoulder earlier each morning, lingers longer into early evening. Birds repopulate the yard. Pruned winter-bare forsythia sprigs, placed in a water-filled vase indoors dazzle me with bright yellow blossoms chased by lush greenery.
My heart seems to be opening to its own new season, breaking out of a confinement into a here and now with spunk for experimentation.
I take my tall skinny canvas and cover it with leftover latex door paint, the wonderful “rhubarb” color we used when we replaced our front door a couple of years ago. I don’t foresee that this orange-red will be visible in the finished painting but I’m curious about starting with it as the underpainting. I like that in the end, in its place at the top of the stairs, this painting will be in conversation with the front door at the bottom of the stairs and the friendly similarly-hued accent rug in the 2nd-storey Bailey-Road-Bedroom just inches away.

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