Being As Art

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What if we are being painted by the artist of time?

BEING AS ART

The pastels of dawn are washing up

behind the winter trees as if we are

sketches and Being itself is some painter

bringing us to life. And today She tries

to color us in a bit further. I can feel the

brush of eternity stroking the way I think;

a bit lighter in front, a tad darker in back.

Now a tear is forming in my right eye. Where

does Being get the color for that. Or for all the

blackish blotches of untimely death across the

globe. Or the luminescent yellow that is the

song of the unborn. The day appears and

we are still in it. It is no longer about

masterpieces or doing what no one

has done. Just staying in it.

A Question to Walk With: In conversation with a loved one or friend, describe yourself as a painting half-finished by life. What is the painting of your life evoking? What colors are there? What world is your life a threshold to?