It's a little cooler. Still humid though. Damp, overcast, still. Quiet — eerily so. It's a busy day. Several zoom meetings, groceries to get, and then I need to make one more phone call this afternoon. I am very upset. I have gained back all the weight I slaved to take off three years ago. I don't like the way I look, or the way this feels. But, I am the same soul inside this puffy coat. All roads out of this “coat” lead to grief. There is sadness in giving up my favorite foods — cookies, in particular. And, hope is dashed in feeling young again — lighter, less trapped and controlled by how tight these jeans feel. Without much thought, I slip into old defaults of creating calendars with harsh diets and fantastical weight goals, followed by the predictable genuflect at the WW altar app. I pull up just in time to remember and write: One day at a time. This day at this time. It really is about one day at a time. This body. This mind, and most importantly — this soul. What does this soul want most of all? To be loved. To express. To be allowed to imagine and play as a soul alone, and a soul with others. Long after the flesh has rotted and the bones have turned to dust, this soul will carry on. Its light and energy bound to nothing and everything and everywhere without a how. I can know this when the fires of fear fade to smoke, and the smoke of yesterday’s stories clear — if but for a moment. Maybe no longer than the firefly’s short glory against the darkening sky, but long enough at least, to light one speck of space in the humid blanket hovering over the bean field.
I put paint over an old painting that I have never liked.
I saw the gold showing up and I resisted.
I don’t like it.
I didn’t invite it.
I didn’t plan it or approve it.
I wanted this to be about horizons—trusty, grounding space of infinite colors and defining lines.
I wanted this to be about resilience—the advent word of the day.
Resilience was the assignment.
Get with the program.
Tune into the same channel that everyone else hears.
Don’t miss out.
Don’t miss the miracle.
But, the art took ahold and kept insisting it be art’s way.
Move the brush here.
Art doesn’t lie.
I step back.
I see columns of soldiers standing guard.
The strength that I initially denied shows up as endurance—powered by Love, it glistens.
Advent paints new light in old places.