"A beautiful thing never gives so much pain as does failing to hear and see it." -Michelangelo
“It is, I think, that we are all so alone in what lies deepest in our souls, so unable to find the words, and perhaps the courage to speak with unlocked hearts, that we don't know at all that it is the same with others.” - Sheldon Vanauken
The words go quiet, softly whisper away; there are none that come.
Each day the sun rises as indian summer gives her final whoop and paints the sky fantastic pastel shades in the morning, and chooses to paint the sun with vivid orange and crimson war paint in the evening. At dusk, dragonfly armies swoop in search of the mosquitoes, and chickens reluctantly find their way back to the pen and wait for the dawn. Sunflowers droop their heads and say their shrivel in the mid-day heat. This beauty. What to say of it? I see it everyday. And yet some days my heart gets caught in my throat with the beauty and the Author of it all. I know I am loved, and yet there is the pain in the midst of it.
The words go quiet though the mind is busy; it is enough to think these thoughts, to see such beauty. And so I hold them, these words, this mind, afraid to speak or write because I'm more critical of my own thoughts that are not at all original or new or earth shattering. And I think of all I have been, and what I am now. There are seasons, they say, (although I'm not sure who 'they' are) and one follows the next in its ebb and flow.
And we go, and I write words that are read and see flowers and comfort friends as tears flow. I've been told this writing, my writing, it is a gift. But the words, they go quiet, and softly whisper away and a lump lodges in my throat and holds them down. I tell myself that anyone can write, and I'd rather be known by those closest to me. How come it is that I write perfectly good obituaries and am drawn to the the sad? Why must I think so hard on deep things that I can only share with a few (and for good reason)? And this choosing joy stuff, that's what it is in the dark when the sadness seeks to strangle joy.
The diamonds come out on the black canvas of the sky. The moon peeks her half-face through the clouds that shroud her in rainbow. The words go quiet; there are none that come. With full heart in a world of pain I lift my hands to the Creator who made this beauty, who made me in all my complexity.