Rooms and Windows

The room I entered seemed brighter than the last. After countless hours of opening doors and peering into rooms, I finally approached a room that invited my entrance. It was a simple room. I felt comfortable with its sweet smell and hardwood floors, and so I remained. The air was filled with intriguing introductions, fascinating conversations, satisfied visitors, small lessons and sweet gratitude.

One day, one of the walls opposite me cracked, revealing a narrow window. Immediately, the room filled with light so refreshing you could drink it! I hadn't seen a room so full of light since a couple rooms back, where the windows were ceiling to floor and wall to wall. Drawing near to the window now, I gasped as I peered through the spotless glass. The ground outside the window was filled with tulips in all colors imaginable! The sky was a cloudy blue, and in the distance lie boats in a harbor and ice-skaters, all in once place! The window was so narrow, I felt as if someone had teased me with a whiff of homemade bread or chocolate cake, with no promise to let me taste these treats. Then, craving more, I pressed my cheek against the glass and strained my eyes only to find a much larger window staring at me from across the happy tulips.

Hoping for a taste, rather than just a whiff, I left that little window and opened the door. Running past a hallway lined with various doors of all shapes and sizes, I stopped at the one door I was sure held the promise I was searching for. I stared hungrily inside, and like the last, it welcomed my presence. The light in this room took my breath away instantly, as rays of color danced along the walls and even pranced on my toes. My body gravitated towards the window. This time, I saw much more than just the tulips and the boats. I saw grand antique buildings, hugging from side to side. I saw people smiling, laughing, and watching their children play in the cobblestone streets. It was a beautiful sight.

I remained in that room for a shorter period of time than I expected. The warm air grew chilly and the bright tulips outside the grand window began wilting. Gray clouds engulfed the blue sky, and the streets became empty. I tried to maintain my optimism, for at least I still had a window and a view. There still remained some light in the room. But I held on too tightly to that light, for one late afternoon while I slept, someone boarded up my window from the outside. I awoke to find ugly slabs of splintering wood glaring at me through the window. The light had disappeared and the air grew cold quickly.

I am leaving that room now. The promise of a new window lingers in the air. I will follow the smallest ray of light until I find another room to welcome me and another window with a view.

Spiders

I peered out the shop window. Resting right outside in its complex web sat a little spider. It was watching the sunrise in the stillness of the morning. I remembered seeing another spider, a few days prior, outside our apartment door doing the same thing. Curious little spiders; despite the early morning traffic of people crossing their paths and threatening their webs, they remained. They didn't scurry in fear of what could happen, rather they stayed close to their homes, soaking in the warm light with reverence. Amazingly, like all spiders do, if their webs were destroyed they would simply build them again. And the next morning, from what I've observed, they would be there again, in their newly constructed webs to graciously watch the sun rise on a new day. Spiders aren't so terrible, they're just beautiful examples of lessons we can learn in the serenity of nature when we take time to observe.

Old Hands

When I was born, I only made perfect little lines. I couldn't walk then. As I began to take my first steps, encouraging hands held me up on either side. Those hands erased my little lines. They taught me something new. With each step, I learned to draw with courage. Each mistake was celebrated. My hands were filthy and my small line multiplied into dozens of messy, crossing lines. The imperfect, bold lines gradually became figures that mourned, that danced, and that loved. When this happened, I stood on my own for the first time. Aware that my legs might buckle, those hands remained, ready to catch me should I fall.

Those hands are no longer behind me. I stand on my own. They are helping other infants with their first steps. I will never forget my imperfect, messy lines, but I long to create them. I am asked to make perfect lines again. My legs begin to shake. No one will catch me now. I will help myself up, remembering the lessons from the old hands, hoping to this day that they are proud.

Awaking Words

Several books were asleep on my desk. I awoke them abrubtly, only to discover that as they opened their pages, light flew about my head. Standing strictly still, the words from each of the books suddenly assembled themselves together and marched onto my arm and up my shoulders. After a brief moment, they dissolved. Each letter melted till at another glance, I could no longer see black print. But they were still there.

In fact, the words tickled and even pricked for the next few days. With each poke and pinch, however, I felt new breath. Bathing my mind with its soothing hands, this breath welcomed the light that was still dancing above my head. As the light soaked into my body like warm rays of an awaking springtime sun, I truly awoke. For, I had been asleep, just like the books.

Sinking Stones

I am standing alone on a stepping stone made of clay. It is resting just above water in the middle of a calm, grand lake. There are six more clay stepping stones tracing the path from the gray lakeshore to where I now stand. I turn slowly on my stone, like a music box ballerina, spinning to an endless tune. The music stops.

Colors fade into black and white. I stood on that shoreline and looked across the lake. The lakeshore in the distance invited me to join its sun-touched beach, shaded by trees rich with varieties of sweet exotic fruits. It faintly promised me new paths worth discovering, that would lead my feet to softer sands and clearer waters. I listened.

I searched for materials and built large clay stones that would help me reach the other side. My hands ached endlessly while the sweat dripped into my attentive eyes. Both the sun and moon observed my work. I constructed seven stones, which carried me to the middle of the glassy lake. The music begins again.

I spin to the disappointed lakeshore waiting for my arrival. The music loses its hopeful charm, distorting into an awful melody of complaints and confusion. The gleam the distant lakeshore once boasted is now dull and overshadowed by dark rain clouds. It is not satisfied with my clay stones. I must turn back.

Water begins to run over the top of my stones. They cannot support my weight. Tears are quietly shed as I sink with my clay stones and gaze at the lakeshore that is unaware of my struggle. Large ripples appear on the lake's cool surface as I cry, but they won't help me build a bridge. I'll have to swim back to the gray shore.

The Wind

I lie asleep on the cool grass. A breeze begins to slither over my dormant body. It plays in my hair with its flowing fingers and dances along my eyelashes. Startled by its determination to wake me, I slowly rise, gazing at the clean blue horizon. I am in an empty space.

The quiet breeze gathers speed and transforms into a rushing wind. Its energy swirls around me, filling the air with perfect harmonies and angelic whispers. The fullness of sound and space lift my earthy frame off the ground. Floating peacefully hand-in-hand with the wind, my arm raises effortlessly to illustrate its beautiful melodies.

Colors pour from my fingers, flowing freely as the wind dictates the notes. Relying upon its marvelous power, I close my eyes in trust. Without hesitation, my hands create grand trees, dripping with rainbow-colored leaves, snow-white clouds sparkling in the brilliant sun, and millions of stars waving enthusiastically to the earth beneath them.

Eagerly listening, a royal mountain appears beneath my fingers. The winds carefully release me to rest upon this mountain. I open my eyes and observe the colorful world clapping joyfully in newness of life. My mountain shadows my world, but as I climb, the shadows disappear. There remain many rugged miles to hike, but with the help of the wind, I can reach the top.

Warming my hands

Approaching the store front, I press my small nose to the dirty glass and peer inside. The hungry walls stare back through the cluttered room. My hands are spread wide on the surface of the glass. Tension fills the air on both sides of the barrier. I close my eyes.

Warmth begins to fill my palms and fingers, the temperature slowly rising. My hands have been cold for too long. Raising my head, I jump back to witness the glass dripping. The drops grow bigger until the top of the glass rains down, imitating a perfect waterfall.

I step slowly through the opening and greet the walls with a smile. They just stare. I begin to notice how dark and cool the room is. There are cracks under the walls. Little bugs begin to wiggle their way out, inching towards my feet. I fear they will bite me. One of them crawls up my leg and nibbles on my hand. My hands felt good before I walked through the melted glass; now, they ache.

I attempt to shake off the bug resting on my thumb and massage my throbbing hand. I walk over to a familiar lamp I used many times before while warming my hands. Confident that it's light will scatter the creeping bugs, I turn it on and direct it's rays towards the cracks under the wall. While trusting the light will work, I watch as legs quickly find the darkest crevasses to bury under.

Keeping the room aglow with the lamp, I inch towards my paintbrush. The handle feels warm with the familiar light. So do my hands.


(2 weeks!!!)

Waiting

The sands continue in a downward drift. Only a small pinch of grains remain. Suspended in the hourglass, they await their fall, as do I.

No force can persuade the grains to fall, and so I wait. The time will come.

Patience is an important factor in this project, but I did not anticipate holding my brush in the air so long. My arm grows weary and I thirst for that initial stroke. That stroke will be the first time the empty, dreary wall will greet it's long-awaited partner, a brush dripping with direction, dreams, mistakes, and lessons-learned. That stroke will evolve into a path that dances along the once-unlit wall.

I have painted for myself a starting line. I can see the path. It remains in the handle of the brush I hold above my head. My shoes are laced. My brush is ready. But the race has not yet begun, frozen in time like the grains of sand in the hourglass. And so I wait.