Left Behind – A Very Very Short Story or When Art Holds You Hostage

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Today is Day 14. We are rolling right along on this journey. I am honored and over-joyed that you are along for this ride. And if you missed a previous invitation to subscribe to all posts in this series, You are cordially invited to subscribe. And follow along on twitter and on facebook if you’d like.

To read Days 1 through 13, click here to catch up and see a listing of all the offerings in this 31 day writing challenging.(I am joining the nester at the nester dot com.)

Books, Art, Library

Once upon a college tour a day or two ago, I was help hostage by art.

Well, loosely speaking. My rather large group of perspective students and parents went on a tour of a college which is right up there at the top of her list. Let’s just say, this place is saturated in history, fantastic architecture and an overall cool vibe.

So as my guide, slash our guide, lead us through the library, of which they are extremely proud, why was I the only one who slammed on the breaks for art. I know of their pride of place because she described in great detail the size, comparable to three football fields, and you people the place is beautiful. Really. But they left me in the dust, the whole group including the tour guide. I was the only one that stopped and took a picture.

Ya’ll I savored this amazing display made from books and shredded paper. Alone. Admittedly, I wanted to appreciate the art with another soul. To discuss what we were ingesting. What was being said, communicated, displayed for us in the center of this grand space.

I live in a wee little shrimping village so you may think I don’t get out much. And hey, that explains her being left behind.  But I have lived in New York and Paris. And I do live right down the road from Charleston, with all its art, museums and history. So I have seen a little more than shrimp boats in my short, well not that short, life. But I slammed on the breaks for this beauty.

My practical side knows that if we had stopped we would have made undesirable library noices with our oooh’s and aaah’s.  But we were on the first level and we had already been told that the third level was the “you can hear a pin drop” level.  So that leads me to believe that these other people on the tour must see really cool sculpture made from books and shredded paper every day.

Either that or we, as a people,  are not easily amused. Or we don’t care about art made from books and shredded paper. Or we are in a hurry or we have become jaded.

People, stop and savor the art. Some talented artisan crafted something valuable here in a sea of shredded trees.

In the noticing is discovery, in the discovery is amazement, in the amazement is gratitude and in the gratitude is a sense of joy and wonder.

I can only think about all the art I have missed along my hurried way.   I was a willing victim in this hostage taking, in the library, one recent day on a college tour.
I would like to hear what she is saying.  I want to hear what everyone is saying. What about you?

Ready, set, go notice.

books in a row

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I am joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring. One of the joys of my Mondays. Join me there?

One Day

Clock at C of C

Today is Day 12 and 13. I hope you don’t mind. I am compressing time, two days into one. As I think about the days behind. And dream about the ones to come. This is quite a journey we are on.

Thank you for being on the 31 Days of Noticing Journey with me. You are a gift.
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One Day

At one  o’clock I looked up and asked the world to stop
As if I were the only one
Who’d ever tried to stop a day
Or seasons of a life
As they go racing quickly by
Quite a selfish soul am I
Who wants to take control
Of rates of speed by which they go

One day at one o’clock I looked up and asked the world to stop
It had been my deep desire
To freeze the quickly passing hours
For me the moments had become nothing but
A dizzy blur
I do not need to tell you here
That I did not succeed, I’ll make that clear

One day at one o’clock I made peace and let the world go on
And chose instead to notice all
To go with it and not be left
Not stop the whirling, twirling spinning ball
As if I had that power at all

I will tell you once again
As plain as I know how
That there is such a  sweet release
In letting go
And giving in to Him
Who created, loves and holds
Mercifully
Every single minute, day and hour

Amen
And amen again
Time and time again

Lord give me grace
To passionately embrace
The one o’clocks and also the two o’clocks

If I were in charge of  time, the speed, the rate

We’d all be chronically
Chronologically backwards, sideways and
Running perpetually five minutes  late.

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( You may click here to read the previous posts in this series, The Art of Noticing)

Lost In A Sea Of Other

Today is Day 11 

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Lost In A Sea Of Other

You should not care to hear the heart of one who lost
Their way in a sea of other
Ways and words and genres
This is not about war or poverty or political crises
But a crisis of confidence

Does everyone who breathes not know this
It’s surely not a minor cord in a major symphonic performance
Of an artist’s life

So if you would choose to bow out now
Not read the lines of poetic gazing into the petri dish
Of the writer’s soul

I for one would not blame you
For those of you who are left
Passion should burn
And if it leaves
Or if it fades
Oh the grieving should then begin

And so I am lost in a sea of other
Wise enough am I, I shall find my way out

But simply
Poetry or whatever you named your passion
That day you uncovered it

Wants a little piece of me
And I
Willing to not go in with just my
Toes in the shallow end

Will swim out to sea
And rescue the me
Who is lost in a sea of
Other

Genres

You may substitute poetry
At any point with the things
You have lay down
Dormant
Resting in the soil of your soul of longing
You know it
As well as I

That which lights you up and makes you shine
Like the night sky’s first star

Ever present
Ever pointing
Ever calling, leaving you restless by night and creating by day

Always pointing
Toward the Giver of the passion

I would have asked for anything but this
But I notice He gave me a love

For poetry.

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This is Day 11 of a 31 day Series on The Art of Noticing. All previous posts may be read here.

The Weaning

Spencer and the dolphin

THE WEANING

I notice you
Noticing me
We walk as women now
In tandem
But hours and towns separate us
Birth was  yesterday
It appears to me
I weep
Even at the thought of your leaving
Tomorrow shrouds my soul
Today
Hope is your middle name
And I am left
Mine is Grief
Stay young my child
Simply
Stay young at heart
My feathered nest
Plucked  from my breast
Internal ticking
Tells  me it is nearly time
For you to  find
Places you’ll call home
I bind up
Prepare
So to wean an aching heart
Good bye my child
It is nearly time for you to go
You who started in my womb
Too soon you said hello

To places outside of me.

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Today is Day 10. Joining Emily at Emily Wierenga dot com for Imperfect Prose

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