Remembering the Heron
Some days my body just aches with sorrow. It is the way I am. Given to melancholy, given to tears. Oh, I can smile too, laugh the world away. I guess no matter what I feel, I feel it deeply.
On the hard days, I am finding that pushing color onto paper is a solace. Moving my hand in circles, embracing white space and giving it shape. It opens me.
Today I sat against my bed pillows. In dim light I worked with greens, blues, purples. I tried not to be afraid of black. It gives heart and depth to the page. With these colors, I remembered the heron on Long Island. Each morning I would watch him slowly make his way along the edge of the lake. Glide, glide, glide, jab... silver fish flipping, caught by sly elegance. Sometimes the heron would take flight. I loved that. It could make me smile in awe, or cry.
The Heron, in soft pastel, by L.L. Barkat.
Labels: art pilgrimage, art process, Long Island, spiritual practice
posted by L.L. Barkat at
9:49 PM
3 Comments:
your first 5 sentences describe me as well...thanks
Hello L.L. :0)
I am not sure if you will remember me from what feels like an eternity ago! We met in a small church in upstate NY where we had a mutual friend, M. For a while my mother attended there as well. I found your site completely by "accident" even though I do not really believe in accidents! M. had given me your book and though I am not through with it, where I am is holding me captive! It is riveting, challenging, and probably one of the best rooks I have read in a long time. I hope you will write more! Your photos are inspiring and I have sent your link to my daughter who is hoping to spend time studying photography as well as graphic design next year in college. She also dabbles in other mediums so I sent her your other links as well. I pray all is well with you and would like to link your blogs from mine--though mine is much smaller and not nearly as cohesive and inspiring as yours! Have an amazing Lord's Day tomorrow!
Today my body aches with sorrow. Heart heavy with grief for the conflict in Juarez. Too much, too dark. And the only solace comes in putting my back up against an ancient oak tree, in running my hands across its rough bark, receiving its silent strength and timeless wisdom. I must touch things, living things to heal my soul. And I hope somehow that comfort transfers to the wounds of the violated.
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