Dreams. Ideas. Art.
Why do they beat so incessantly inside our chests & why do they matter & are we all making true art or contrived/cloned art & can art heal & if so, what healing are we missing by denying the art within us?
These pivotal questions have been inquiring answers of me these days. & although we are entering autumn, I myself feel as if I am entering spring. I've been in a long winter of wondering how can I possibly give life to all the ideas inside of me & if even possible—what would be the point? Would I labor in vain? Would my dreams go un-manifested & my art go unnoticed? Would it move—actually move—anybody?
My dear friend, Katie (pictured above), shared this piece with me yesterday & I was struck in the sweetest way by the words (I could not find) to describe the plight/hope of dreams. When I asked if I could share her brilliant string of words, this is what she said:
"I don't mind you sharing. Keep in mind when I wrote this, it wasn't for beauty's sake, I was literally trying to work out what I think and answer my own questions. It was very therapeutic. But it might not be done or complete.
I like this one, not so much in how it turned out, but how sincere I felt with every phrase. Like when I started writing, I really didn't know the answer to how romantics/dreamers grow old. Because all I could see was either getting discouraged and defeated at nothing ever really getting better, or living in denial and in delusion that anything is possible. But I just kept writing... because I needed to believe there was a third design, a way forward that doesn't compromise hope for reality."
Enjoy her sincerity. May you find a sliver of the solace I found in them.
"How do the romantics get old?
I am trying to believe there is a path to follow between delusion and defeated.
Will hope, my strong footing, make a fool out of me at last?
I am growing in conviction that we all die disappointed,
Of the wholeness we expected to find,
and that the world still bleeds upon our departure.
But perhaps it is a good thing.
Just as an immigrant can make the most of his new country, but is never not longing to see the horizon break over his home again.
And a widow who is grateful for her breaths left, but is breathing in a world without color.
Maybe the romantics get old by being allowed to sail close to the edge every now and then,
and peer over,
and see that it is good there.
And so hope still finds me,
patiently beating its wings on the glass of my sufferings,
only carrying a simpler song:
Just to do the work in my hands.
And that I might be embraced by the Pleasure of God in my years.
And we can go forward fully because,
it all mattered."