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The Journey is What Matters

By Jennifer Lorraine - Bloch McGeePublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 3 min read

    One choice amidst twilight

    brought the artist’s book to fruition.

    A collection, demanding departure,

    from the usual mold.


Paintings grace the pages: a representation of how messy, yet

beautiful, reclaiming your life can be.

Words fill the cream-colored spaces.


I turn pages avidly, feverish in my discovery that

I am not alone. My search for

truth. Proof,

to bolster my faith in one’s ability to rise above.


The paintings – still wet with drying – represent an ancient story built

upon ten thousand times ten thousand converging paths,

all unique. I am transfixed by this assemblage of beginnings:

A homey portrait of solitude sets the scene with prominent, emotional

depth. Then

a grayness creeps in: a step back to see in full, cultivating

a stillness. One moment of reflection played back in the mixed mediums.


I nearly smudge the paint with the force of that connection. An,

awakening, foreshadowed by delightful swatches of lightness,

like starbursts reflected in a tear-drop. I

was led here; We, were led here.


I know what the next truncated canvas will hold: lily pads

displaying a sudden hyper clarity; bringing the stillness inside. Hope

mixed with fear, I place the palm of my hand directly over my heart.


Rhythm of cycles remembered, I am transported back

to my childhood home. Mind at ease, knowledge irrefutable,

those perennial paths rise in my memory.

A quiet space to be, me.


My life began on a farm. Most of it is still there: blood, sweat, tears

meld with freedom of imagination, blending like a slurry with the soil,

the rock, the bark. This is where I remember

who I am meant to be. But,

this is new; I am tired.


Focusing on the next page, I see stark colors made complete in blurry

pastels, their depth rising to an obtuse angle. Fear.



darkness. An internal struggle between acceptance and



When I left home, I sheathed acceptance. Like a wilting flower

I tucked it between the pages of a book. Though uncertainty abounded,

my enthusiasm did not falter.

The spirit of the land walked with me.


So, desperate to get away, I experienced, explored, became

bitter. Overwhelmed by history and reality, I became

a shadow of my true depth: my helium soul

stuffed tight.


Maybe this wasn’t meant to be my story.


I am pulled in by the painted darkness: a digging up

of the buried things. Only healing brings

overriding joy.


Displaying a balance of beauty in darkness and darkness

in beauty, each painting becomes

a window I am invited to climb into and walk

another’s journey. Exaggerated sponges denote a


a color,

a feel,

where at the end, all the broken pieces merge.


I recognize the journey, because the journey is mine. The things I refuse to

surrender. In this –

I, the writer,

she, the painter – we move together in time: heart, mind, land, balance,



Then – bold strokes for discovery. A focus forgotten in childhood,

bolstered by the intuition of the female heart. Liberty,

with soul peeking out.


Maybe, I had it right all along,

because suddenly I can read

these paintings

like I wrote

this poem,

in pieces,

that became the whole.


I thought the beautiful ending would get me,

but it was Solace all along.


About the Creator

Jennifer Lorraine - Bloch McGee

*Imagination is the plaything of fairies. Without imagination we are doomed*

My heart and soul goes into my writing. If I don't bleed a little, I haven't done it right.

Reader insights


Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (4)

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  • Kijuan Williams9 months ago

    I really enjoyed how you expressed yourself and told the story

  • Kayleigh Fraser ✨10 months ago

    Outstanding ✨❤️

  • L.C. Schäferabout a year ago

    This was really beautiful. I had to read it through a couple of times.

  • Mariann Carrollabout a year ago

    Beautiful 😍

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