Here is what showed up today in my daily writing practice.
Each morning I fill a large sheet of rice paper with brush handwriting,
following the touch of hair on paper, the lively letterforms, and my thoughts -
often beginning with the observable world and finding, at the end,
what is close and intimate.
It is interesting to me that I wrote there was "nothing to publish"
and then felt the pull to send this out after all . . . perhaps there was nothing to lose.
Sharing in the spirit of offering handwriting as a path of connection.
Enjoy the leaping letters - and read the "translation" below . . .
Make some order to table - place the black bowl
of ink in front of the white expanse of paper - lean
back a bit relaxing the pushing forward posture - feel
the cool air on my arms through the sweater - look
up and out and note the sky beginning to cloud over
the light dimming a little - one dove marches along
the top of the stone wall - touching in on the day - my
need for steadiness and doing the enlivening work -
black ink on my finger where the brush rests - the
mark of creative engagement - the ting of brush
ferrule on glass bowl edge - the tiny moves of life
& expression - so small - only seen by me in this mo-
ment - nothing to publish - and yet this is the heart
of the matter - noticing - intimate - close - small - here.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
I spend an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum in New York
wandering through the galleries.
As I walk I start to feel overwhelmed by the vast visual expression
of humans through the centuries,
each exquisite object a world of attention and care.
Where do I fit in ?
My head feels heavy and my feet drag . . .
I find a quiet spot to sit and write out the confusion,
letting the sadness spill forth and settle through the touch of pen on paper
and my familiar honest handwriting.
Then I get up and head into the Asian Collection.
I had walked past these earthenware figures many times in the past,
loving their roughness and wacky smiles.
But then I would think "tomb figures" - oooh - dead space - don't want to go there . . .
This time I let them delight me.
They are back from the dead - encased in a glass tomb now
but surrounded by the movement of humans passing by.
I stop, open the sketchbook, and dance with them for awhile.
The exchange lifts my spirits.
I am back in connection again.
Posted by Barbara Bash at 12:10 PM