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?