Dear Girl

Dear Girl, 

I see you, 

You are light and
The sun should be ashamed 
You enter and every 
Shadow in every room breaks 
You are darkness too 
With all the uncertainty, 
mystery and the 
What shouldn't be's 
Still and more so 
You are beautiful. 

I hear you, 

When you speak 
The wind quiets and 
Rain trickles into 
drops crystal clear 
Forming a puddle 
Of intricacy and importance 
Of every word you say. 

I feel your heart, 
How it pounds for 
Every injustice you see in others 
Or yourself. 
How you know what is 
Right and what is not 
What pains you, 
What drives you, 
What makes you happy.

No matter what, 
No matter how hard
how grueling, 
how much loneliness
you have to endure, 
You dear girl are 
Not perfect, will never be
And not perfect is fine 
Because perfect is not real 
But what you are is, 
What you are is beautiful 
You are beautiful, 
Every single piece of you--
Light, darkness 
Quiet, noise 
Aching, joy. 
Your body, your mind 

Your heart. 
You are beautiful. 

And you, my dear sweet girl 
You are real. 
You are seen, 
You are heard, 

Remember, remember, 
I am here.

Forms of Traveling

Today was filled with musings on various things: kindness, not kindness, desperation, Valentine's day, poetry, Khalil Gibran, Fodor Dostoyevski, Harper Lee. A discussion for a forthcoming gathering of artists, writers, poets, musicians in summer ensued. And then a brave declaration, "I am almost ready to pick up a paint brush," followed by a quiet question to myself, "Maybe this gift of strokes, I have it in me too?" 

The lovely Miss Gie says, "If you can write, you can paint. An artist is an artist."

Tita Tess adds, "You can still learn."

I have no answers from my end for now. I read somewhere, "To arrive is to imprison." I abhor walls. And yet, down in the recesses of my consciousness, I am the very manifestation of bricks laid on top of the other with the mortar of  stubbornness and hubris. I am not the entirety of who I am now, I  gently tell myself. I can expand, grow, progress, transform. Yes, I can. And I shall. Perhaps I already am. 

The Master Artist retouches the demo painting he made for our young Artistes at the start of the session. 

During the workshop's 7th session, as they worked with watercolor for the first time, I remember him admonishing them, "Do not see this as work. Love what you do." And they really do. Despite the crease in their foreheads, their eyes gleam. To witness that gleam, to have created the conditions for the gleam to happen is a privilege.

This traveling to the seemingly unfamiliar-- places, people, time, a manner of living, leaving, returning, I love more. More than arriving. This constant state of motion, the unsure footing,  is where my heart is sated.

He stands up, hands the painting to me. My palms open, arms extend even before I know it. I accept the gift.

This heart is full, Sir Billy.  Daghang Salamat. 

(Watercolor Painting by Artist Billy Pomida)