Behold, the exquisite realization of knowing how to hold a pen, and make shapes with it, preempting next to nothing, but anticipating anything ~ accident or song ~ longing from a place that has no words to know god, or love, pretending we are not those things already.
We enter a conversation that has no beginning and no end. Discipline, devotion, symmetry. We make shapes that break away and change the course of history, surprising us all. Familiar, yet new. Cherished and renewed. Curated, crafted, and tended to - like a garden for the gods of everyday people.
Our footsteps hold memories, and tell stories as we go. And we all go - the best of us, the blemishes, the crooked noses, the breath. But the moments, like time capsules, mark the ways we added paint to the canvas, or paused to dance with the light and let the white seep through where we had nothing to say, learning that was okay too.