Solitude
I went out with a friend after work today. We talked about solitude, and sacrifice, and art.
When she dropped me home, I opened my mailbox and in it was my September edition of Art & Antiques magazine. On the cover: "Decoding Abstract Art."
My former roommate, who calls me KA, and whom I call friend, has an amazing piece of non-objective art that her friend created. It explodes with color and texture; and if you hold still long enough, quiet yourself long enough, you can feel it. It reaches out and touches an ecstatic part of your soul that you suddenly remember has been there, all along.
As I fanned through the pages of my magazine, I thought about solitude. I thought about wide-eyed innocence. I thought about third-world slowness, and third-world courtesy. I thought about monastic solitude, and holy gratitude. And I became acutely aware of the clanging and crashing in my mind.
Tonight my friend and I talked about those with callings and gifts that set them apart. Physicists, priests, writers, artists. We talked about how important it is for us to fit in, to be alike, to be understood. And we talked about how important it is to be okay not to be understood, not to be alike, not to fit in. How nice it would be if priests could marry. How great it is that they don't. How our western world cannot fathom the idea of choosing one, and not being able to have both. How sacrifice produces beauty.
I think of Van Gogh. I hush myself, I see his gift, I feel his heart.
Shhhh.
When she dropped me home, I opened my mailbox and in it was my September edition of Art & Antiques magazine. On the cover: "Decoding Abstract Art."
My former roommate, who calls me KA, and whom I call friend, has an amazing piece of non-objective art that her friend created. It explodes with color and texture; and if you hold still long enough, quiet yourself long enough, you can feel it. It reaches out and touches an ecstatic part of your soul that you suddenly remember has been there, all along.
As I fanned through the pages of my magazine, I thought about solitude. I thought about wide-eyed innocence. I thought about third-world slowness, and third-world courtesy. I thought about monastic solitude, and holy gratitude. And I became acutely aware of the clanging and crashing in my mind.
Tonight my friend and I talked about those with callings and gifts that set them apart. Physicists, priests, writers, artists. We talked about how important it is for us to fit in, to be alike, to be understood. And we talked about how important it is to be okay not to be understood, not to be alike, not to fit in. How nice it would be if priests could marry. How great it is that they don't. How our western world cannot fathom the idea of choosing one, and not being able to have both. How sacrifice produces beauty.
I think of Van Gogh. I hush myself, I see his gift, I feel his heart.
Shhhh.
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