All of the Lights
6 days ago · 2 notes
Never in the heart of winter did I think such beauty possible, but now we are in the throes of spring. Life is possible once more. Spring is the season of both procreation and recreation. It’s essence is that of rejuvenation and the expansion of possibility.
While winter weighed heavy on my heart and offered nothing but nights spent cold and alone, springtime is a time for pairing, for mating. Its lightness is only surpassed by its sheer brilliance. It is the energetic season. An awakening of the senses. A rekindling of the core fire of life.
Even now though, I can feel the door of springs beginning to waver, to slowly close. I feel the approaching heat of a deadbeat summer. Times spent working in fields, working in shops, and soaking up hot, ungentle rays of sun. Summer is life in full swing, but it has lost its innocence – it is blissfully unaware of its stage of being.
Spring—that quiet, knee-knocking ingénue that wholly shocks one into listening—with one deep breath lets out the most pristine and precious of songs. In winter, that feeling is hidden deep in gray frost. It’s lost in the endless accumulation of snow and brooding. Feelings are cold, but deep. They are invisible from the surface, a mere scratch revealing them in their profundity.
Our lives in spring are that bumblebee’s flight. Gently, we hover from place to place. We move. We carry the life-giving pollens around us to different spaces. We sustain ourselves in new and full abundance. So, too, are we that bee when it stings. We die instantly in ourselves, only in rain are reborn.
Cruel winter’s last refuge is night. Glorious suns, day upon day, are the perfect material form of energy. Each easterly rising, morning upon morning, is the reminder to all that a missed spring day is inconsequential – there are more on the way. The west is a signifier of possibility, but in setting is merely only a brief recess of possibility.
The souls of children might be found in blooming flowers. Neither are eternally youthful, but in passing moments they whisper little lies to us and to themselves that theirs is everlasting. Tulips are my favorite; it’s honestly no wonder that the Dutch went so kooky for them. Vibrant shades of reds and golds, their gentle and insistent sway in breeze, can nearly bring me to tears at times.
The color of spring are so novel to us, just having entertained the Iceman for so very long. Like autumn, they leap forth from monotone backgrounds to catch us with our guard down. We are vulnerable in winter, and jaded in the summer. Trees are our most stoic companions, but even now they let off that they, too, are relieved. They also are caught off guard.
It is as though all this beauty were bound up in the dark days of winter – perhaps, it was there all along. The passing of seasons may not be only a product of our planet’s position in the Cosmos, but a work of the human heart. It is not only the earth’s revolution, but our own. It is the natural rebirth of our exterior world and the renewal of our interior, affective selves.
We begin again in spring. We start anew. We clean. Our shared and individual space and time are brought full circle. We share in the abundance of our planetary home. We pass on our essence to a new generation.
A cherry tree glances at me from across the yard, and I crack a smile. We never ceased to be one.
1 year ago · 2 notes
The Aesthetics of Disengagement — Christine Ross
According to the National Institute of Mental Health, more than half of the world’s population will have a depressive disorder at some point in their lifetimes. In The Aesthetics of Disengagement Christine Ross shows how contemporary art is a powerful yet largely unacknowledged player in the articulation of depression in Western culture, both adopting and challenging scientific definitions of the condition. Ross explores the ways in which contemporary art performs the detached aesthetics of depression, exposing the viewer’s loss of connection and ultimately redefining the function of the image.
Amazing. A new need-to-read.
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity’s sunrise
1 year ago · 0 notes