works of art

The words in my journal, of late, are of softness and breath, of dreams and process, artist and voice, life and wonder. Repeatedly they surface, on this page and that page, on the page that’s written two days later, as if something in my subconscious is coming up for air.  I breathe, I dream, I iterate.  I am a work of art.

The first of the zinnias blooms, and this makes me happy.  A sweet, pink bloom in a sea of green leaves and yellow poppies, buds of future blooms appearing alongside.  Also making me happy are the two rose bushes I planted a few weeks ago.  They are not dead, are sprouting fresh, new leaves; there is a rosebud on one of the plants.  I did not kill them (yet).  The garden is a bit disarray(ish) this year, more so than usual.  But there is a zinnia bloom and a rose unfurling, a sea of green leaves and yellow poppies, all flowers, no vegetables. I'll take it.

After being sick, I’m still low on energy, with an appetite, but finding food uninteresting.  I manage a salad, finally, and it tastes good but other than fresh berries and watermelon, I mostly want things like french fries and sandwiches, iced tea, maybe vitamin D gummies, a second cup of coffee with cinnamon and oat milk.  I am uninspired in the kitchen, though I think I'll make a lemon pie.

All things cycle.  The inhale and the exhale, the summer blooms and the winter skeletons of gardens, the healthy body and the compromised one, the salads and the pies, the dreams.  Cycles of effort, cycles of rest.  And softness, always softness, please.  A singing.  One note, maybe two, a tiny word, some story coming up for air.  Eventually it will unfurl, one way or another, energy always finds its way.  Look for the changes in pressure, for the cracks through which to shine.  Listen. For the song, for the story.  Speak to me of process, we are living works of art.

I think a lot of making art is listening to yourself.
~ Kiki Smith ~