“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” — Mahatma Gandhi.
My brush fills with blue watercolor and finds sky on the paper. “Keep moving,” my teacher tells me. Watercolor isn’t as forgiving as acrylics. Sure, there are tricks. Looks like I may learn a few. Now.
Dab the spot out with a magic eraser.
Or add white to another color and paint something over it.
This mountain can be a tad higher.Or this ocean needs waves. This pot needs another flower.
Watercolor painting is like living life to the fullest. Stay awake. Let the colors of the day lead and follow what is important. Not every effort is effective. However, it can be a learningplace.
Let the first coat dry before attacking it with another. I want results now. Real life tells me something else.
That I am a student. At the age of 78. May the learning continue.
There are two days in the year that we can not do anything, yesterday and tomorrow . Mahatma Gandhi
After the Bomb Blast Where is the cameraman’s face, as he zooms in on the hungry bleeding child? Is the small boy frightened of a creature carrying a camera? Does that person bring bread and bandages?
Then the camera moves to the next atrocity and delivers sensationalist stories for the 6 o’clock news?
On the other side of the screen viewers chew carryout pizza and wait for the next commercial to get more beer from the refrigerator.
Where is the cameraman’s face? A minute-long film can’t tell the full story. Somehow, may the captured moment ignite help and not more hunger and pain.
“Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven.” –Henry Ward Beecher
I ask my granddaughter to take my hand as we cross the busier section of Sharon Woods parking lot, so I don’t get hit by a car. She’s my helper until the space opens into a park-anywhere zone. We have been watching her older brother play baseball. Her attention span doesn’t last two hours yet.
“Run, Grandma!”
No thanks. I’m old,” I answer knowing that keeping up with her is as likely as flying without wings.
“You’re four today,” she states running toward the playground. “I see a friend.”
She hugs someone. An older girl, tall and thin, ebony dark. Then she joins the other children on the playground equipment.
As the children play, I talk to the thin girl’s mother. It appears unlikely that my sweet grandchild saw any more than a fresh spirit when we entered the playground.
“Let’s go back and watch your brother play ball,” the mother calls to her daughter and siblings.
The girls hug again.
Today is my birthday. I didn’t need to unwrap this gift. It came open on a sunny May Saturday. I am blessed. I am blessed. I am blessed.
“Imperfections are not inadequacies; they are reminders that we’re all in this together.” ― Brené Brown
White blossoms appear like smiles all along the street. After watching the news, I could use them. However, I am told there are too many tree blossoms. Invasive, like the flu. The Bradford Pear. It promises no fruit.
And I see sweetness anyway. For now. If only genuine beauty could overwhelm the land. I consider what I can give. What white blossoms can I share? What kind of pure white will invade despair and destroy it?
I sigh. Too lofty an ambition. Yet, a friend or two, or three, could use encouragement. Heck, a pleasant word at the grocery store can be a seed. A thank you has its unknown power.
While blossoms appear like smiles all along the street. For now. May I realize that imperfect is the norm in this continuing now.
“It`s not how old you are, it`s how you are old.” ― Jules Renard Old People
Old People, Look at the present and savor it because each Day may not be Perfect, but if it’s not Enveloped in pain, it’s okay. Old folk, celebrate the Persons in your lives who Love because it alone makes Existence worthwhile. Love back~
“We make a lot of detours, but we're always heading for the same destination” ― Paulo Coelho
Lost—Again
The directional app on my phone remains mute, while the road twists and my mind twists with it into lost places I’ve been.
Memories explode bully-style inside my brain synapses, creating panic. No sound, but an arrow on my screen says turn left at the next corner. I remember
the shop with the worn yellow sign. And space in my head and heart opens. I know to move through uncertainty. Celebrate my detours. Consider
the possibility that others hide pain behind strange, sour, surly behavior. May peace be made from pieces, one imperfect turn at a time.
Originally published in For a Better World 2020 reprinted previous blog
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