"crazy making garden foreplay" is on day 2 of it's evolution. Yesterday's post got me to thinking about a painting being a view into the soul of the artist. I am still having an internal debate about that but some might see things clearly.
I told a friend recently that sometimes I feel like my life is playing out in some sort of opera. The equivalent of an off-off broadway show to be sure, but an opera nonetheless and without the benefit of a working title.
I am old enough now that I have some serious history of my own life. Some successes, some failures and plenty of joy as well as sorrow along the way. The cumulation of all these experiences has resulted in right now, right here, where I am. The biggest lesson learned through my greatest sorrow, which was the death of one of my children: live now. Lesson learned through great joy( and I've had much joy in my life): live now. All that is in between the joy and the sorrow: pour a nice glass of wine and live now.
(I have always preferred and find plenty of reasons to live in the joy, lest you think that this blog entry is dwelling on the sorrow. it's not)
Occasionally I'll have a friend confide in me about an issue or problem that they're facing and my summarized answer in at least the last few years has been "live now". don't worry about tomorrow or yesterday. Find your joy in the right now of your life.
By contrast, in the opera of my life, I am hoping that I won't be the one jumping off of the turret. I just want to be the one with the amazing voice that convinces one in the audience that there might very well be a God if one person can have such a gift as that. That is to say, sometimes when my own troublesome thoughts take over, I am unable to find my own answers.
p.s. please don't worry, this is not a suicide note.
I hope that in this painting the viewer sees passion being played out. The way that I see passion.
post script: I found out this evening that my grandmother, Cicely Robertson Szabo, passed away yesterday. My grandparents, Cicely and Bill had a huge place in my life. I am the daughter of their eldest of ten, so my place in their life was more so as a daughter as their youngest children were my age. When my grandfather died of heart failure, they lived with me in my home in southern California and had both just graduated from college at the age of 76. Cicely's death will be marked by much grief, much laughter and memories shared. She was the mother of ten, wife of a hungarian commercial fisherman, daughter of a scottish artist.