Grief. And Grace. II
After Linus died, and the bees came--and the wind, pinning us into one harbour after another--I began to dream in colour. Marike and I would pack a lunch, bottles of water and gatorade, our swimsuits and snorkeling gear, and paper, brushes and boxes of paint, and head to shore. We walked, swam, looked out to sea, and painted. What mattered, to me anyway, was not so much the quality of the final product, but the fact of making something, the layering of colour, like a laying on of hands in our hearts. Not healing exactly, but solar solace, a bouncing of light beams, a rendering of the world which rent us, at once awful and beautiful and more vast than we could tell.
Broken rocks for broken hearts.
Watercolour sketches, San Juanico, BCS, Mexico, 18 March 2010
Nuance - There is no mystery In an onion—tear away All the tissue-thin Layers one by one. You’ll find Nothing irreducible.