For all the negatives that have come with instant access to modern technology, I celebrate the wonder of being able to communicate with my people at the touch of a fingertip. To be able to reach all of them at once is remarkable.
The four children who sprang from our union are all remarkably creative. Its equally beautiful and painful. They grew up being reminded to see with the eyes of poets. I thought I was doing them a favor, but I see now I was also feeding their genetically predisposed tendency to feel deeply, to overthink, and to question wholeheartedly. They are truly blursed (blessed and cursed) by their creativity. It would have been easier to be less observant.
In general, I am grateful that, despite the discomfort, they get to be creatives. What they see and what they generate are spiritual stimulants. The absolutes of their creation are hard copy representations of where their spirits lie. We are all works in progress. Look at their creations and you will have a pretty good idea of who they are.
The other day Kate sent me a text with a photo of a child's drawing of a manatee. It was at an estate sale near her home in New York. Just a little colored picture in a small nondescript frame. What made the interchange beautiful to me was not the drawing itself. What was lovely is that Kate noticed it in the first place. What struck her was the idea that someone cared enough about whoever drew that manatee that they found a frame and gave it space in their world. I wonder, in that estate sale, if anyone else saw such a beautiful thing?
The eye of the poet is simply awareness. It's Anna and Dave both coming to me yesterday evening, wanting me to get up and look out the window as the setting sun spread her tangerine wash across the landscape over the Great Salt Lake. It's Annie snapping a photo of eleven-year-old Beth's letter slipped under her bedroom door, bemoaning the companionship of mosquitos in her room, each of whom she named and cursed. Only poets name their mosquitos. It's Kate noting that the snowfall on the rail of her front deck created the outline of little British guards. It's Johnny making a large backdrop for one of my concerts where the flying angel has messy hair because life is messy but its still beautiful. It's Sarah noticing the loveliness in the pause of a conversation. The artist in her knows the value of empty space.
So, my children, continue to weary yourselves in creativity. You not only color the world for yourselves, you enrich it for the rest of us.
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| My Kate |
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| My John |
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| Kates little snow soldiers. |
