The sunset drew his gaze over a mountainous landscape as he stood atop the world, just below the whispering clouds. He pulled in a sweet breath of wilderness. Then the question came to mind once again: Could life actually be too beautiful for words? A question, engulfed in the vibrant colors of autumn brilliance. It seemed to him, some otherworldly artist had already accomplished the only method of expression possible, with a color-rich palette and paintbrush. Nevertheless, he picked up his journal, contemplated life for a moment, and wrote: So many leaves have fallen on my life. Some settled nicely to rest; but most fell, withered to bitter cold, and drifted on. But, after all that, I would brave all the coldness of humanity again, for the sight of a few more beautiful yellow leaves falling on Aspen, and the birds. I will miss you, my angel … I will be waiting for you….
I remember who I was as a child. Now I ask myself, Where did he go? Contemplation in silence has occupied the last three meditative days. I sat in the lush forest … amid whispers of wind, and wondered when I went astray. The child was wise with nature. He didn’t ask for answers, only found them while wandering landscapes. This child was not a child, only a young being marveling over the breath of nature, using his innate ability to see art not only in the typical forested settings, but also on everyday streets … where emotions of life can be witnessed on the faces of others; or how light writes a moment of time on a cityscape. See, in my mind then, I was a photographer, while friends were firemen and such boyhood dreams. I had my camera, given to me by an elder man who had answered my question of “What do I do with this?” with an all-knowing, little grin, from which came his reply of “You’ll see, boy. You will see.” Time has revealed the boy in me once again. Therefore, upon realizing that my life of dilettantism is coming into focus, I am content to settle on one, and answer the dreams of the boy no longer dormant inside: I was once a photographer in mind. Now is the time to be one in soul. My life has shifted that I may finesse the fleeting moments of light. My black-and-white purpose beckons to be fulfilled. Everything but study is put aside. Silence has become my friend once again. I will write with my lens, telling a story without my pen. The boy wanted to be an outstanding photographer. I am that boy … now reminded of a quote to live by: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” And now I understand the words of the elder man. Yes, sir. I see. And one day they will see … black-and-white art from the soul of a boy, through the eyes of a man. One day.
Art is used to express feelings, to put your, the artist’s, world into some kind of order. Peace is sought by imagination. Your craft is the ethereal blood of Self communicating with self in a recognizable language to infuse a message unto the physical plane. Heed the voice … and Self will smile on your life as you journey shoulder-to-shoulder down the lush path of living art, weaving your colorful existence together in an intricate design of beauty that enriches the world with the very essence of You. The heart sighs; the smile is serene … and beauty weeps with joy.