I don’t have a whole lot of words to express. I could on about how I am feeling, or talk about the weather. Or, I might say that winter has been a chore, and most certainly not a bore. I embraced the winter this year, I let old things die, and revived a passion for my painting. I spent time with the elders, made them meals, spent time listening to their stories. It is strange that we write off the elders, and treat them with such little respect. Instead we blame them for this and that, the climate, the state of the environment, and so on. They did the best the could do. There is no reconciliation without first respecting the fact that the new generations will also make mistakes, and that in the future, they will be the ones who bare the weight. I myself, my little self, think as long as the children are laughing and playing, and that the earth provides us with life, that we ought to celebrate this life, and consider how lucky we are to be here. I know I am.
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We all have our stories, contorted as they may be, the beauty is the resilience, the inner spirit reveals. So I am here, amongst a world in and out of chaos, everything as it is supposed to be. I sense the mind echo questions and dialogue, I don’t give it my full attention. Instead I sit quietly in the terrible beauty of it all. Their’s climate deniers, clinging to old beliefs, while young people scream protest about Climate Crisis, without agreement to solutions. Complex is the modern world, has it ever been any different? Modern egomaniacs perhaps no different from those in the past, the story spins more stories, the mice with crowns run but do not move forward. Past rejections, life lessons, an uncertain future, yet Love remains. Where is all this coming from, perhaps at the depth of this human there is a heart that wants out the shell formed over time in order to survive. I used to wonder what Dali’s fascination was with shells until just recently did it make sense while cooking in a geothermal hot pool. I look at my mom, a care giver all her life, came from poverty, a very hard life, to living in her dream home. She truly cares for my dad, sharing her insights into what it’s like to see her lifelong partner not be able to take care of himself. All the while working painstakingly on her mountain scene petit point (if you don’t know what that is, its art, math, stitching. and well it’s complex). It’s pixelating with thread material before pixels were a thing. She works day and night, needle point in hand, colourful string, mapped and coded. She says she is going to give up every ten minutes, yet continues to weave her thread through the fabric. I never thought I would be here, watching over my raging parents, seeing their fragility in the last stages of their lifetime span. It has been difficult, yet again the inner spirit sees me through, and art my faithful companion, this I share with you. Be well
