On the eve of Darkness.
When Joey and I decided to drive across the country, we were overwhelmed by all of the places we wanted to see and experience. Yet, with neither one of us having visited the Grand Canyon, it felt like an obvious — albeit a little clichéd — pit stop.
We were both so glad we went. I think I speak for both of us when I say we were completely taken by the sheer expansiveness and beauty come to life in that place.
In terms of timing, this was an interesting stop for us. We were only a few days into the trip, and both dealing with our own stuff — internally, that is. A palpable heaviness started to creep in…but the moment we reached the canyon, much of that lifted.
Later that evening, we enjoyed some quiet down time at our campsite. Despite the peace of it all, I felt uneasy. I’m sure some of it had to do with my own fears, insecurities, and questions — all of which started to surface after hours of silence on the road.
It was a beautiful night, but I went to bed feeling unsettled.
Early the next morning we packed up and began the next leg of our journey — to New Mexico. It was then that I saw the CNN headline on my phone.
Orlando.
On the eve of Darkness,
I saw the thing that makes us feel so very small.
And I stood — stunned and speechless and full of clichéd truths.
I breathed it all in, because quite frankly, I didn’t know what else to do.
And perhaps breathing it in, would invite some of its largeness into my very smallness and expand the collapsed places, reminding me that I’m not so very small after all.
On the eve of Darkness,
I revelled in my humanity.
My senses caught fire and awakened to the textures and the scenes and the buzzing and earthiness and salt.
I wanted it all, and gathered up as much as this heart could contain.
Some spilling over, of course.
On the eve of Darkness,
I sat beneath the stars, and spoke to sister Moon.
Something in me must have known the world would soon begin to ache…
So naturally I started painting.
The sky — with luminous hearts.
The Darkness came,
And once again tiny I became.
And I stood — stunned and speechless. And empty.
I tried to breathe, because quite frankly, I didn’t know what else to do.
And perhaps breathing would invite some life back into these deflated lungs, and really this deflated body, and I suppose mostly this deflated soul, reminding me that I’m still alive after all.
The Darkness came,
And I despaired in our humanity.
My senses caught fire and awakened to the cold and the faces and the cries and ash and bitterness.
I wanted none of it, and rather knew that I had to carry most of it with me.
For a little while, at least.
The Darkness came,
And I sat on a sterile hotel bed, and spoke to him.
My heart, our hearts, the world. It all aches…
All I can think is that it’s time we all start painting.
The sky — with luminous hearts.
