There is a painting hanging in our bedroom that I created several years ago, in our old home, in my old studio.
And still, it speaks to me.
Of breaking free. Breaking out. Breaking up the constraints I arbitrarily place on myself about what makes good art, good poetry, good writing.
Things like, ‘The Rule of Thirds”. Never use black. Always use a good reference to paint from. The rule of ‘don’t end a sentence with a preposition’. Don’t begin a sentence with ‘because’, ‘and’, ‘but’.
They are just rules.
And rules are made to be broken. Right?
Yesterday, as I walked along the river with Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and felt the warm ‘it’s almost spring’ sunshine on my face and watched chunks of ice float down the river and listened to birds twittering in the trees as Beau chased after the ball and I navigated the almost clear of ice pathway, my mind was full of thoughts of the painting I was working on and its message that was not yet clear.
And suddenly, like the sun breaking through a cloud, a thought skipped into view and landed with a resounding plop on my heart. “The day she discovered her wings is the day her dreams took flight.”
Yes! That’s what the painting’s about, my happy heart sang as it did a dance of gratitude for the muse’s tending of my creative expression.
When I returned to my studio and put the final touches on the painting, I wrote the quote along the lefthand side.
And the muse kept dancing.
After dinner, I finished tidying up my studio, came back upstairs, chatted with my beloved for awhile and took my journal and self to bed.
And the muse kept dancing.
The painting may have been ‘done’ but its creative expression wasn’t.
There’s no rule about writing a poem to go with a painting? Right?
Oh well. If there is, I’ve broken it more times than I can count! I like that breaking of rules.
She Was Born To Fly by Louise Gallagher She wandered through her days like a leaf tossed by the wind aimless, directionless, weightless her heart aching and her feet leaden tethered to some invisible thread of memory caught in the veil of yesterdays lying in the darkness of believing she did not know how to fly. It’s not true. You are born to fly, a voice deep within whispered in those moments when her attention grew weary of the world beyond the pale of all she could not see in the here and now leaving her exposed to the exquisite mystery of her life. She didn’t believe it the idea of flight seemed too impossible the mystery too deep. She had feet, not wings she whispered back, closing the door on chance as she turned back into certainty. But then, one day when she least expected it she felt the urging to stretch beyond the realm of her imagination and on that day she discovered her wings hiding beneath the layers of life hammering at her to stay tethered to threads of memory keeping her tied to life’s heavy toll. It was that day she discovered she was born to fly and her dreams were too.