I once knew an artist who watched honey slowly drip from its tipped jar. Smooth and hard to hold, she splashed it on her blank canvas, merging it with burnt wood, creating a masterpiece from charcoal and gold.
Whilst growing up, I stopped remembering to use honey. I learned to drink my coffee black and forgot to make bitter tea sweet. I had decided the only choices worth my effort must be practical, must be novel.
“It’s a moot point.” I’d respond to the astounded gasps of witnesses, who could not comprehend a writer’s calm sips. I didn’t need sugar, spice nor honey. My life would continue just the same without.
Of course so goes the cliché, all things summer fall to bitter autumn days. We started reaching for honey a little too close to pulling away.
The honey slowly drips from its tipped jar, smooth and hard to hold.
We knew we’d never catch it. We knew only for a moment could the stars align when they were disjointed to the times.
It’s impractical to dawdle when the world around you is accelerating. But ours was a slow motion race in the fast lane.
Sometimes strolling on a highway designed for speeding is the only way to collect images left uncaptured.
That summer sun was scorching hot. It soaked us in dripping sweat of burning warnings, but I never wanted to move.
So we splashed our palms in the shallow roadside rivers and used the water’s colors to connect constellations in the swiftly shifting stars.
We added brushstrokes our canvas didn’t need, but painting was never a practical pursuit, and the unnecessary contrasts added poetry. They vibrantly defined faintly penciled lines.
Artists lost in creation, we were rhyming and painting and ignoring the racing. Capturing moments in embraces of interlocked flow.
It was the first moot point I didn’t mind. There was an unexpected beauty in the inconsistent scheme of rhymes.
Then a reversal. The speeding cars honked. We weren’t supposed to stroll in the fast lane. The swiftly shifting stars switched and spun and faded, replaced by fated anti-matter.
We chased the last brushstroke and attempted to slow the motion of summer’s memory melting heat.
A strange sort of balance blanketed the sky when swiftly shifting shadows contrasted with the colorful constellations we had created.
Our rhyming and painting and ignoring the racing seemed to be moot, but I still didn’t mind. It was worth the flow of inconsistent rhymes.
Whilst growing up I stopped thinking of adding sweet, but after our summertime stroll, I only sometimes drink my tea and coffee black, to the astounded gasps of witnesses who cannot comprehend the “why” of a moot point end.
You see, the constellations are more colorful today, than if I had simply watched the honey slip away.
The honey slowly drips from its tipped jar, smooth and hard to hold
but we must reach for it anyway if we are ever to stumble on rhymes that will stay.
Do not ask why at a moot point end.
But ask all the rest. The how, the what, the when. That is the story, which is the why.
The sojourners start. The road bends and an adventure is written. A tool-belt of lessons helps us tread a little farther than last time, helps us witness something novel. Then the shifting road’s line shakes from new mistakes. Our heart is chipped, and we learn while it heals. We collect captured moments, add them to our tool-belt and begin again.
It’s the origin of the cliché that all things of summer must fall to bitter autumn days.
When we witness this cycle through open eyes, we know our pounding hearts are truly alive.
But without silence a pounding heart cannot be heard.
And without learning the whole journey is assumed moot and absurd.
The lessons come while the chipped heart heals, and sometimes belated light shines on hidden sentimental strides.
Seems it’s time I collect our captured moments, and begin again with three new tool-belt lessons to pack on my next journey.
It’s true, you don’t need sugar, spice nor honey, but remember that sometimes you must forget you learned to drink your coffee black because somewhere in that recipe for life we’ve all been chasing are the words:
Truly living was never a practical pursuit.
Sometimes the concept of a moot point, is deemed moot itself when a pounding heart finds flow in an inconsistent scheme of rhymes.
So search for the silence where the pounding heart can be heard.
Dance to that rhythm because that is the why.
That is the story.
Opposites do attract.
Fated anti-matter must contrast with colorful constellations in order to vibrantly define moments of alignment.
And for every swiftly shifting star is swiftly shifting shadow to “right” it.
To slow it’s race.
So, to my moment painting partner, I thank you for our short stroll down the fast lane.