Black Keys Melody

To pour out the infinite, unknowable ache of the soul in physical expression is possibly the bravest act in the world. What are tears but the insurrection of a broken heart, pushing the world out and away from the throbbing pain of a scourged soul? True tears--undeniable tears born out of utter confusion, hopelessness, and loss--what are they if not bolts by which our world is fastened down? What are tears but silver lines by which we trace our very identity?  They are defenders, gilded in sparkling white, rushing wave after wave to guard the human spirit from all manner of attack. Each tear, a tiny soldier shielding the flickering light of God's-breath born in the heart of every man. They are those tent-posts that establish character and belief. The human life is bound within the perimeter of tears--life's manual written in a pained hand, road signs printed out in grief, passages closed for the loss of hope's light. And, the man is outlined farther still inside the world h

 What makes us think we are so untouchable? For such fragile mortals, we seem to walk the earth as the most irreverent form of immortals. Some chalk this flippant ignorance up as a virtue of prevailing humanity. They lie. What is profited by glorifying the ridiculously ungrateful spirit of our people? Nothing. I would not call it the ungrateful spirit of our time. Humans have been equally narrow minded and self-serving since Eden’s rebellion. Today, the twenty-first century is not far worse or much better than the world centuries ago. If anything in this world evolves, it is the twisting way in which iniquity bleeds through the ages. The problems we face in this decade are kindred in spirit to those that opposed our fathers in their time; it is merely the face of the beast that changes. Commodity or enemy, iniquity paints its face to best entice the newest generation.  If I asked the Greatest Generation if genocide was wrong? They would have opposed it with their whole heart. It was

When I was a little girl, I was given a bright yellow lifejacket. I loved it because it felt like a infinite hug, keeping me together. It was a constant friend and a protection from both outside and inside. It was the masthead of my identity as a little girl, the top thing on the spiraling tower of who I was.  At first glance, that's what identity is. It is merely a collection of what we have done, what we have, and who we know. It is a pile--a house, full of things.  When we meet someone, we long to take them on a tour of our home. Here is the Atlas Room, full of my completed bucket lists and voyage souvenirs. Here is my stereo, with every song, random fact, and language I know. Here, notice my garage full of useful skills--my closet, my library, my garden. But, let's start here at the front with my trophy room. I keep the window open so that people can see it from the street.  We put so much thought into what color we paint the siding. Who are you? Oh, I'm the blue house

There is no shortcut in art. Everything must be built, layer upon layer. There is no standard size or technique. Every color must contribute in its time and in its place--each layer and every shade blending into a beautiful composition, a symphony on paper. The layers cannot be judged by their individual merit. The equation of art demands that each step in the process be viewed in light of the finished work. The layer may seem ugly alone, yet it is beautiful as a singular part in the magnificent whole.        What are we, if not magnificent works of art? What are we, if not layer after layer of life? Like waves, time lapses over us. To some its a sequence of accidents, while to others, its a chain of determined events. Despite the perspective of the canvas, the artist works on. Who are we to call our current stage ugly? Who are we to discount the sporadic color, merging in from all different sides of our existence? Who are we to question what we cannot fully see? Who are we to attempt