Sometimes it’s the light.

Always, it’s the light.

Outside my office window, the maple tree glows in late autumn sun. And along the riverbank, tall grasses bend to waning light. Even the asphalt street sparkles in the after-rain.

How eager we are to absorb, to shine.

The world is a weight and our hearts cannot bear it all. And so we have art and words, friends and light. This is what carries us on and through.

Yesterday, my writing group — a mix of ages and interests, voice and form — met at the local art center. Surrounded by creativity, the assignment was wide — write about mood — and we dived in, each finding a wave, swimming out far, then making our way back to listen and share.

Like light, writing is a mystery. How it comes quickly, or not at all. How it streams in steady or dims too soon.

“Art is a wound turned into light,” said painter Georges Braque.

In the quietude of powerful paintings, I was moved — sudden as sun. How quickly light can change a mood. How quickly mood can change the light.

Incantation

inspired by the art of Carmen R Sonnes
on display at the Columbia Center for the Arts

Take this cross, this sun, a dawning start.

Take this bread, for life. This water, for heart.

Because patience is a mirror with

paths to places you do not yet know

carry the tangled roots of your dream.

This is a mark of hope for the lost.

Scatter stones, bead, seed, and sand.

Turn your want to turquoise, your wish to earth.

Whisper to night, bow to dawn,

to all the burials before you,

all the births ahead.

Safe travels, we say.

Safe crossings, we bid.

In this migration, may you find home.

— Drew Myron

It's Thankful Thursday.

Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, it's time to slice through the ugly and get to the good.

What are you thankful for today?

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