Pouring My Art Out

The sun tints the sky, setting fire to the heavens. It careens with wild, child-like abandon through a drop of dew on the tip of a rose petal and shoots off in new directions and colors. The sun is all the beauty of nature. Our eyes are adapted to the light of this sun, our sun. Everything we see, every color and reflection, every dappled shadow and soaring rainbow, only exist in our perception because we are the sun that we grew up under. We are made of the same stuff, as is all that is around us. We are the sun, and the sun is us.

There is a reason that most early people worshiped the great ball of fire in the sky, the giver of life and warmth, majestic in its stately progress across the vault of the sky. It was our timekeeper before we invented the concept of time. It is the seasons, it is what keeps the darkness at bay. Before we knew what the sun was, we knew that there could be no more terrible cataclysm that could befall us than to have its light extinguished.

The sun is you, and you are the sun. Cast your light into the dark recesses of the world. Lift someone out of the darkness. Expose what is hidden. Radiate light and warmth wherever you go, because all the light and warmth of the sun is within you, an unquenchable, timeless, seething core of energy, feeding on an inner heart even while sending its rays out in all directions.

Be the sun.

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I hope you enjoyed this series of posts. It is a small peek into the way my crack-squirrel infested brain works… because these are the kinds of things that are bouncing around in there all the time. This was a random sampling of perhaps two hours of my life when I was sitting in a car driving North, waiting for the sun to come up, alone with my thoughts… and squirrels. And these are just the thoughts that I found worthy of jotting down because they struck me as funny enough to share or worth delving into. Most of the rest of what was going on in my cranium was just the sounds of the squirrels chewing on the wiring and that weird, rubbery, squishy sound their feet make when they scramble around on my cerebral cortex. I have to try to sort through the background clutter and pick the few useful tidbits out of the chatter of all those squeaky little voices… all day… every day… and when I try to go to sleep it’s even worse.

Welcome to my life.