Earlier today, as I sat on a stone wall outside the historic Thompson Farm House along the Shore Road of Ogunquit, I witnessed a monarch butterfly end its final flight.
The young boy was sitting completely alone just outside of the ancient Byzantine walls of Rhodes, Greece. Setting up shop on an uneven scrap of torn cardboard, waiting for an audience amidst forgotten pieces of plastic garbage.
Last summer’s fruit still clings to the end of thorny rosa rugosa stems along the Marginal Way cliff walk in Ogunquit, Maine — even as spring sunlight coaxes new growth elsewhere along the thickets.
The Old Town of Rhodes, Greece is the oldest inhabited medieval town in Europe. After entering through one of the seven gates into the Byzantine walled city, it’s as if you’re exploring a disorienting labyrinth buzzing with frenzied activity.
To be born creative, is to enter life inextricably conjoined with an exquisite hindrance. We emerge into our lives governed by powerful innate urges; the insistent curiousity to experience new things; the exhausting swoon of constantly witnessing beauty in places others may not see it; an irrefusable necessity to obsessively *convey* through brush strokes, words, images, forms, or dance.
This is how it is everyday. Eyes open against pillow. I feel like I’m always waking up. I twist my neck to check the digital clock. It’s too early or too late. I’m either awake and ready for more sleep, or sluggish and slept too long.
