Now I struggle to get any words out — I squeeze and squeeze and only a few dribble out: stilted, insipid, characterless.
I could blame the kids. Seven children is just crazy in this day and age. Friends, family, acquaintances, strangers; they all feel perfectly at ease informing me of my madness. It isn’t easy.
But I can’t blame our counter-cultural life for my difficulty. The fault really lies in my mind.
My thoughts are incoherent fragments: shattered safety glass. Hundreds of tiny dull fragments glisten on the pavement — unable to make a point.
Just like this week’s collection of photos.
Real life has this way of interrupting art-making plans. And then there is the perennial fear — why do this? What on earth difference could it make to me or anyone?
The point is to just be. And to create. Not for anyone in particular — just because I enjoy doing it. I exist in a fog of demands from others and I don’t mind serving them — they are my joy.
But in the end there does have to be some small space for me to create something beautiful as a way of thanking God for all I have.
Maybe I am guilty of making it too mystical but, in truth, I think I’m guilty of making it too mundane. As I’m searching for that image or that word I need to remember in humility who uttered it first.