Ever since someone uttered the words – don’t write about me in your blog – all hell has broken loose!
How can I not write about you now?
You know how that goes right? Someone tells you “no!”
And so. For instance.
Guess what? I ran my fingers over the cool stone figures of Henry Moore. The smooth wood of Wendell Castle. The rough stone of the sarcophagus in the hall at the top of the stairs. Did I actually breach the barrier to experience the tactile textures of the paintings in oil?
Was I that bold?
Would I have been so compelled if I hadn’t been dared to not touch?
Here’s the thing. I understood already, at a very young age. What I could get away with touching and what I couldn’t. No. I didn’t touch the paintings. Yes yes yes! I thoroughly loved the sensations of the sculptures that begged for more than just eyes to appreciate their beauty. But. I knew the limitations. Too many touches can harm delicate pieces. I would never!
And so. Today. A friend asked. Who are you talking about in your posts?
It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s one person. Maybe it’s another. What does it matter really?
Aren’t we all dealing with similar suffering? Aren’t we all trying to find peace?
Maybe in a post you see a workmate. Maybe you see a family member.
Maybe you see yourself.
All of life, like great art, needs to be examined, explored, touched. In all the ways you possibly can. Be discerning. Delve deeper when you should. Even when some will admonish you not to.