Tuesday, March 22, 2011
My hands are smudged with pastels and I'm surrounded by spring.
It is here-where art and Your creation collide-that I feel You best.
Where my tiny bit of creativity can somehow mingle with Your giant amounts of it.
It's like placing a simple stick figure next to a Monet in an art gallery, an act that is simply unheard of...but not in the parts of the world that Your plan still reigns in.
Your art inspires me, and yet my fingers cannot create work that way, Your way.
My trees look like a five year old crafted them. There is nothing majestic about their trunks. Their branches don't seem to praise You the way the ones in my backyard do.
And the wind...I feel it and I long to capture it. I want to show how it takes my curls and dances with them. I want to paint the feeling of grass blowing against my leg as I read.
But it is too beautiful for me to capture.
The sounds of birds, the rustling of the wind against a leaf...they sound so foreign, as if my ears can't process what they mean.
I want to call out to every creature, and invite them out of their homes, so that we can celebrate this Masterpiece of a day together. If the squirrels would dance with me...goodness, that would be a true thrill.
I want to run down to the creek and splash around until I'm too frozen and too worried about dropping my camera. I want to keep that water in a jar forever, so that I can always feel the coolness of it, see the clearness, the perfection that You have made.
I want to capture the way the sun touches my face, the way the pine tree shimmers when the rays reach it.
I want to embrace it all, to hug Your artwork to death.
And maybe then, after the warmest embrace I can muster, maybe then I could learn how to capture a taste of it.
[surprisingly, all photo credit goes to me.]