February 29, 2012

Leap year day, an regular if somewhat infrequent occurrence.  This morning again we have fog, so it's hard to see the leap year day.  Everything except the dark bodies of the trees and the streetlight is erased, again.  It's not quite as bad as yesterday as i can see out into the yard, but again it's a silent morning, no birds up yet, and except for lots of fog nothing much to see.  Joggers are not likely to run in this soup, it could be hazardous.  The one thing you can hear is the occasional fog horn, nothing steady just the intermittant call of safety going out into the dark.

Now the light steals in and shows that the fog is more whisp than anything, the overcast buttoned across the sky is more cloud rising than fog.  Stepping slowly out of those whisps are familiar houses and the trunks of trees, cars and the flash of school bus.  Time to start the day.

Every moment what I see changes, it's hard to stop watching . . .

In the Moment

every moment muddled with color
is turning into another moment
is turning into another chance
is turning into another image

every moment muddled with questions
what do you see between colors
what do you see between seconds
what do you see between breaths

every moment muddled with meaning
your eye sees in the light a reflection
your mind sees in the light a portrait
your heart sees in the light new questions

tears or wonder
sorrow or longing
shadows or sunlight

every moment
we make connections
every moment
we make
every moment ours
every moment
we are reading
between the lines

S. Crowson

It seems I like reading between the morning lines, seeing everything change from moment to moment.  This morning I will ask my girls what they see when they look at . . . art, how do they define it, how do they decide what is art.  It should be an interesting discussion, they have been making cards for weeks, will be curious to know if they, by their own definition, have been making art.  Some of them surely have, and some, not so much.  But either way it's been interesting to see how they approach the work, for whether it is art or not, it is surely work, work assigned and evaluated.  While I made them make an attempt at definition, I would not want to be held to any definition I might make, as there would then be something I would see, or experience, that I would conside art and that would fall outside what ever definition I might give it.

There are random birds out there starting up several conversations with the morning.  Surely one is a mockingbird; they seem to be early risers.  Enough light now to see the branches of the sawtooth oak, and the yellow-green of its flower shine even in this half light, color that shouts spring and the earliest abundance we know.

Here we have all kinds of signs for spring, other places are still waiting, but soon, everyone will soften into the thaw and have what we have!