This is how it looked for a while, as if I was winding through a maze. The walls were solid lace, so it seemed harmless to linger there. Wandering in the maze even seemed like what I was meant to do. It was fascinating.
I waited for the walls to fall down, or pushed against them which only made them more solid. Then I noticed a thread and gently pulled it. The maze began to dissolve. Following the thread lead to the beginning. To myself.
She told stories of white peaches, lilac forests, and pumping water to drink – things too magical to believe. She claimed to have seen them with her own eyes, and she made sure you knew, such mysteries belonged to her, and never could be yours.
Yearning for something beautiful that time had already locked away, remembering a happiness that came and went before I was even alive. That is how the lacy tangle began.
There’s more to this story than meets the eye. I’m starting with the ending. The tricky thing about stories is they tend to tangle you up, if you hold on to their shape too tightly. On the other hand, a story might untangle right before your eyes, taking shadows and sharp edges with it, if you brush against it accidentally when your attention is otherwise engaged.
Last Friday, I had so darn much fun taking pictures of my pretty clutter (as JMacD christened it), instead of actually picking it up and putting it away, I decided to try it again. You don’t recognize this area of my house? Well, that’s because the “creativity” is everywhere, so unless I use it to dispense water or make fire, any spare surface is probably covered in something on its way to becoming something else. At least that’s what I tell myself.
And I know after seeing these pictures, you will never invite me over to your house with my camera, because now you can see that I would take pictures of your stuff, too, given a few moments alone while you are fixing us coffee. But the magic of the camera is, when you use it to take the time to notice your very own world, all your stuff has a certain delight to it….because it reminds you, you’re home.
At the surface, water shakes
like a tree shimmers
with breeze.
But leaves submerged below the water rest
undisturbed
float supported,
looking upwards,
still.
“I wonder if I see clouds that way because my pictures are like that, or if the clouds got inside me, and took form in the pictures.”
Sr. Corita Kent, Learning by Heart
Through the magic of screwing around with a camera on a sunny afternoon, clouds can become leaves, or leaves can encompass clouds. And then Joni Mitchell might get in your head and pretty soon, you’re humming.
Oh, you know, its just pretty around here sometimes, as long as you like buttons and butterflies and don’t mind ignoring the tumult.
The arm chair is arranged.
The putti readies his bow.
Crystals concentrate transparency,
reform it into something seen.
Now
Shake your salt and pepper words
across the lacey table
near the window
where there is just enough daylight to reach into
your eyes
brown
so familiar
and promise to tell me
only the true stories.
Proof positive, I was there when the pinkness occurred in Verona, Wisconsin – April 12, 2012.
I don’t think April likes this any better than we do.
More blatant bloggy laziness…can’t decide about my own image, so today I am throwing myself on the mercy of the crowd (you dear, kind souls who have made it your business to visit the blog despite its self-indulgency, and to throw me kisses which I catch and pocket smooch smooch smooch). Which gypsy fortune teller do you prefer? The hot red lady who glows with color wherever she pleases, or color abandoned for the uncompromising gleam of black and white?
PS I believe the fortune teller can make your wish come true, wise heart – simply drop a tender thought in the comment box and I am for sure, your hearts’ desire will be granted (because your thoughtfulness will have made another someone very, very happy…)
what is beautiful remains 