Solace

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.

Black,

disjointed

darkness. An internal struggle between acceptance and

Belief.

//

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

shape,

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,

harmony.

//

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.