It’s nearly 4 in the afternoon and I’m still wearing my anti-slip fuzzy socks.
Moments ago, I retrieved two little scraps of tissue from my nose that were lodged there to help me stabilize the lava-like snot flow.
I’m the icky kind of sicky person. No cute red nose, no adorable raspy voice. More like can’t-smell-my-rancid-breath, bloated-faced, puffy-lipped, nasty all around.
Soooo, lounging on the couch (again) and inspecting the couch pillow for drool from my last conk-out, I see this: the tiniest rainbow.
Somehow cradled in the folds of our curtains. Somehow light bouncing off the beveled end of my bike, ricocheting through the window, landing in full color in front of me. then gone. as quickly as it came.
This is life, I think. little reminders of promise. fleeting moments of beauty. a lot in between.
It strikes me how contemporary art and poetry–the work of creatives– is so easily manufactured to reflect the chaos and inexplainable. All the yuck. Or, and I don’t know I would call this art at all, it is an idealistic twisting of reality, a set of expectations our world could never fulfill. A perfectly arched rainbow on a piece of sky-white paper.
All this lofty talk.
What I really mean is this: It’s too easy to write or draw or paint or sing the chaotic. And it’s way too easy to conjure up the unreal.
What’s hard and what’s beautiful is when both chaos and cosmos can be held in either hand, balanced, and accepted as mysterious.
My home girl, Madeleine L’Engle introduced me to cosmos and chaos in her little book Walking on Water. Give it a read.