•the art of art•

(In which our heroine spares us, please, the definition.)

I'm thinking today (a period there would be so funny) that my songs are the greatest gifts I've ever given myself. Bear in mind, I have spent *more* time wishing those songs didn't exist... but. At some point, a person does manage to shove aside her own internal censor (oh, move OVER!). At some point, a person does manage to be in the moment, to let things go, to see what there is to be seen. It's just art.* There, in the world, for us, for anyone and everyone (for ever and ever, amen).

Yesterday: I was reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Then I found my music on Pandora. Then I picked up my toddler by bike in the shimmering sunlight, and on our ride home we watched sheep, racing in their paddock. We picked kumquats, and ate every last one. We went to dinner (brussels sprouts, pasta, cake), and the adults talked about blank space in literature.

Today: I played my fancy guitar for the first time in months. My fingers knew where to go. My voice knows the words, still. My horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the deep and drifting snow.

xox

* This reminds me of a magnet my aunt Jane gave me. It's a cartoon of two obese women, huddled over a whole blueberry pie, with the caption, "It's only fruit." That, in turn, reminds me of a particular cooking-class evaluation from work. It was written by a teenage girl, "Instructor should be more relaxed. It's chocolate! CALM DOWN."

p.s. It's art, no matter what we do. (Couldn't resist a definition, after all.)