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Quiet Nights

August 28, 2010

Sometimes I literally can’t write creatively or otherwise. I have a mind full of thoughts and a heart that’s wide awake with excitement or bewilderment or happiness, and I can sit up ridiculously late thinking and not produce anything. I sit and wait and hope I can make something happen…so I have “something to show for the evening”. The more I consider this attitude, the more destructive and contrary it seems.

The quiet nights can leave us with such good. Excitement briefly lasts. Grief has its seasons. Life remains, and there is no greeting card for us to “Have a Regular Sort of Day”. All the times between the excitement, life continues, and enjoying those times and treasuring them shows a type of contentment for life itself that is rare and valuable. Live with others during their best and their worst, but it is during the routine times of life that character is revealed. The value of the day includes the value of the day itself. Life is life, and life is good, even on quiet nights.

The overwhelming thought I have is that some things in life are entirely indescribable. Words just don’t do justice to them. If they were defined, they would seem limited. If they are undefined, they confound us.

Life is…well, everything. This combination of duty and freedom; a contrast of routine and spontaneity; playing out in time and space; sometimes being solitary and other times having company; as one who is inspired and one who has the capacity to be inspiring; an experience that is ever-changing and somewhat static; in some respects, menial and others, significant; experiencing and manipulating the tangible and intangible; being the artist, the gallery guest, and the gallery itself; the conversation of the natural and the supernatural; the play between the mortal and the divine. Those are words– just a few descriptors of the indescribable. Without meaning, the words are dead.

I am simply living, and life is good. The days are full and yielding much. I think that a thing so good and so deep, so rich and so faceted as life sometimes ought to leave us speechless, in whatever way the situations bring.

A foolish person would try to count the stars so intently as to disregard their brightness.

A heartless person would only count tears instead of offering help and sympathy.

The number of stars or tears may matter, but to disregard their substance would be ignorance.

To produce words to describe a life without essence or to describe life and not live it depreciates the value of it entirely.

Sometimes, silence serves us best.

May the quiet nights bring you wonderful, indescribable things.

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