I wouldn’t say I was feeling down. I couldn’t call it disappointment, either.
It was a very good day. It just wasn’t the day I had imagined.
I was pleased to have kept my commitment; pleased to have made a small difference.
The spiritual service moved me to tears. I managed to hold back most of the lonely decompression that follows the end of a mission.
Community disengagement is a let-down; leaving, returning to steady, known apathy.
The short-set mingling morphed into tired walking; across the street to cars, and rest rooms and t-shirt purchases.
I cannot tell you it was a well-thought out thought; it wasn’t.
I cannot tell you why I said what I said, feeling the way I did.
I cannot tell you I knew the person just a step behind me.
I cannot tell you I recognized them; not from work, not from lunch, not from praise.
I just skipped a step, falling back a foot, turned and said, “This may have been one of my best birthdays, ever.”
I didn’t realize we’d stopped walking; we were talking.
Quickly: about birthdays and kites, tulips and art, a fight two sisters had in their mother’s hospital room.
The leaving chill evaporated; son-powered enthusiasm soaked in.
Suddenly we were last in line, thanking GOD and Jesus for a beautiful day.
Followed by a question with the only possible answer: Yes.
We sat down there, in a day-safe neighborhood, in the dwindling late afternoon, deep in portfolio.
A simple medium; graphite and recycled paper = pencils and abandoned pages.
I’ve never mastered the achievement of negative space in any medium.
Pencil, pen, crayon, watercolor – all take foresight. A clear tear is not easily added to a pencil portrait.
Devils that didn’t look like devils, doorways to the wrong place, wallpaper with eyes, a gang logo, a sister, a mourner, a life; questionable looks from passersby.
I stopped when I saw her, speaking to me of loss and prayer and grief and release; echoing loneliness caught by loneliness.
I didn’t ask who she was; simply served a compliment.
A few pages later, the counterbalance caught me. Separated, two portraits sharing one instance, one hand on each shoulder.
I knew they belonged together. When offered, I cried.
I knew they belonged together. Speechless to the insistence, I cried a little harder.
“If it’s going to make you sad, make you cry, I won’t ask you to take it. If it will bring you joy, please…”
I looked up from the shadows, buildings by setting sun; patience was waiting, not signaling time to go.
But we knew it was, so carefully, the gift was rolled; secured, presented.
We hugged and hugged again, and when my breath came, I grasped for more –
With nothing to offer, except for this; “I hope to see you again, someday.”
To which was replied; “It’s all up to Him. GOD’s will be done.”
So, I fought the breeze, and crossed the street, and wiped the wind tears away;
I could not, then, and still cannot answer; “Whom was ministering to whom?”
Quote for the week:
Enjoy This Week’s Discovery Links:
Detailed: Interpretation of Art; http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/36433/art-philosophy-of/36256/The-interpretation-of-art
Art as Therapy: http://medicalarttherapy.com/using-art-as-an-outlet/