Life is filled with little joys if you just look. Even if they're fleeting.
The inspiration here came from my drive to work. There are these thickets of weeds I’d see, interesting and full of character. Driven by day in and day out, their shapes became familiar, no matter the weather or sky. I dazed in and out of mind. I’d see the side of the road and think, isn’t that beautiful. Life is full of intriguing curiosities. If you allow nature the chance it will pull you out of your emotions and give you a sense of something greater. Sure, you’re not always allotted the time for empowering walks in the woods. Yet you can appreciate and notice little things, even if it’s just weeds on the side of the road.
Fall last such a short time
Observe the world, reflect
I found this poem so fitting for this painting. Sometimes I am jealous of poetry in how plainly it conveys what I want a painting to feel. Yet painting is my gift and I hope with it I convey messages with out words.
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. On the interstate listening to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist say, "The universe is not only stranger than we think, it's stranger than we can think." I think I've driven into spring, as the woods revive with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound, and aren't we just? Just yesterday, I read Li Po: "There is no end of things in the heart," but it seems like things are always ending—vacation or childhood, relationships, stores going out of business, like the one that sold jeans that really fit— And where do we fit in? How can we get up in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do, put one foot after the other, open the window, make coffee, watch the steam curl up and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls in the open window, while the sky turns red violet, lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons. The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop for the thousandth time.
https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2009%252F03%252F21.html
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