The weekend is already coming upon us. How time flies! Been on this planet longer than I like to know. I kind a like it here, though, and hope to stay awhile. Yesterday was a bucolic day, running around here and there, on country roads, with my friend. She loves photography as much as I do, and gets lost in the moment. Swept up with the surrounding visual wonder. What a delight! It’s those little journeys that help you to forget about everything, all the unessential worries that occupy the mind.
Jeffrey Jones offered these very touching words upon the death of my mom. She was an art teacher at New Richmond High School. Her popularity among students, even those who never had her as a teacher, gained her the name Mart, for Ma’ Art.
After my graduation, Mart came up to me and said she wished I would have taken an art class, I laughed and told her “I’m not an artist” And I wasn’t, lol. She told me, When you can see, instead of looking, when you can feel, instead of touching, when you can listen, instead of hearing, you’ll find that artist. Never forgot that. Made sense when I had children. She taught, more than she thought, lol. No one is ever gone, as long as there is someone left who remembers. Mart will be with us, a very long time.
Mart passed away at 90 years, 3 months and 6 days, July 13 2015.
It will come when it’s ready. Unannounced. You wait patiently for it to arrive. Your breathing rebels, on occasion. Outsiders come along, and interfere, to give you comfort, to make you laugh. You do not cry. With patience, and humor, you respond to your visitors. The serious bones in your body, have gone away, and said good bye. There is no room for lamenting, or tears. Only goodbyes. Each comes to you with there own personality. You let them express, in their own way. You have seen so much, and understand their ways. You are wiser, than all. Patiently you know, you can’t rush death.
A person’s life: width of a hand
I have heard it said
I look at the early morning sky:
from star to star
even less
The happiness that you wait for,
something that
cannot be measured, only possible
if not measured.
At sunrise small birds, without bursting,
sing out loud the morning dew,
the bright sound of countless droplets.
Possessive love arrives, it locks the door behind it and settles in forever, always predictable.
Love arrives, it leaves its luggage by the door, in case worse comes to worst, but it still undresses.
Passion arrives, first it lights a hundred candles, then pulls the door off its hinges and breaks the windows. Leaves everything, everything to the care of the wind.
A person’s life: width of a hand
On Tiffany Creek 