it is suggested to us a million times a day that our BODIES are PROJECTS. they aren’t. our lives are. our spirituality is. our relationships are. our work is. stop spending all day obsessing, cursing, perfecting your body like it’s all you’ve got to offer the world. your body is not your art, it’s your paintbrush. whether your paintbrush is a tall paintbrush or a thin paintbrush or a stocky paintbrush or a scratched up paintbrush is completely irrelevant.what is relevant is that YOU HAVE A PAINTBRUSH which can be used to transfer your insides onto the canvas of your life — where others can see it and be inspired and comforted by it.
it was because of his profound knowledge of painting that leonardo started so many things without finishing them; for he was convinced that his hands, for all their skill, could never perfectly express the subtle and wonderful ideas of his imagination.
- giorgio vasari, the lives of the most excellent painters, sculptors and architects, 1568. [emphasis mine]
earth ripples alive in her golden skin as wheat ripens under summer sun, pulses to fullness fattened by rain and wild airs. bronze rods of barley brushed by the weather, shimmer in fields of light as corn mother moves amongst us. her fertile body is swollen with grain, sheaf after sheaf—enough to bring bread to the whole planet, even to famine, if we work with the climate, tend our fields as holy places, share with those who lack as an act of Compassion. her belly is big with promise, with miracles, wonders, but our shadows stretch long on the harvest acres as we eat up the land. At the heart of the eleusinian mysteries lay a single grain of wheat—sun-energy so small, holding the future.
i am a hunter of beauty and i move slow and i keep eyes wide, every fiber of every muscle sensing all wonder and this is the thrill of the hunt and i could be an expert on the life full, the beauty meat the lurks in every moment.
damn, what happened? when i looked down there was a bee clinging to my running tights - stinging - that undeniable burn with chills. double damn. and then the deluge while trying to hail a taxi, with water up to my ankles. awesome. but it’s still a good day. somehow it is. and now the sun is out. everything changes - sometimes quickly. thank goodness for that. monday.
we keep libraries in our minds, cataloged by time and organized by moments. we bend corners on the days where the universe cheered for us, moments where our hearts were plump with love and our faith was unshakeable. we have well-worn pages - weathered and soiled with grit and hard work. days comprised of great effort and great reward, moments of rolled up sleeves and unflinching pride. our library contains stories about sadness and grief. on kindness and grace. on forgiveness and humility. the entire collection is what ultimately defines us.
i think about people, people i know and don’t know. the timing often seems odd, disconnected, begs the question “why”. while i don’t know holly, i thought about her last week but couldn’t remember the name of her tumblr. tonight, her words found. a reminder to hold space in our words for others, to allow ourselves to be held between their lines.
joy is the kind of feeling a woman has when she lays the words down on paper just so, or hits the notes al punto, right on the head, the first time. whew. unbelievable. it is the kind of feeling a woman has when she finds she is pregnant and wants to be. it is the kind of joy a woman feels when she looks at people she loves enjoying themselves. it is the kind of joy a woman feels when she has done something that she feels dogged about, that she feels intense about, something that took risk, something that made her stretch, best herself, and succeed - maybe gracefully, maybe not, but she did it, created the something, the someone, the art, the battle, the moment, her life. that is a woman’s natural and instinctive state of being.