My tenderheartness, or tenderheartmess, as I like to call it, is just fine. Why is crying so bad? It's involuntary for goodness sake. I cannot help it, I promise you.
The path to waterworks is chalk full of opportunity when it comes to me, but here are a few examples.
How do I feel beauty?
This painting, is brilliantly the epitome of beauty. There's hardly a comparison for me.This impactful preservation of history is incomprehensible on multiple levels. Before someone painted this, someone described it. I can't even tell you what I would give to hear people who were there illustrate this moment, did they have any idea what they were describing? Did they know that America would become America? These questions fire off in my mind, there's something so transcendent about reverence during chaos. The calm before the storm, the calm during the storm, the calm after the storm. I guess I love storms.
There was genius behind this act of medium, I want to believe it wasn't calculated like so many creations are these days. I want to believe it was sincerely about the stunning simplicity of a military man on bended knee, searching for answers or hope or courage or strength or whatever. I hope this was an artist's whim, like "let me see if I can convey this moment" "let me speak to the souls that see this painting", not "watch me weaken knees over military and God". That's a cheap shot and we all know it, this country is programmed for patriotism, we are supposed to care about all military affiliated things, it's a good way to get famous and recognized. (says the girl with a military blog)
I could research the artist, I could better understand every step that led George Washington to this moment, but I would much rather stare at this image, and get lost. Like I do everytime. I want to glance at that beam of sunlight over and over again, til my eyes unfocus, and I want my hands to fold in that exact same way whenever they are not busy.
Ready for number two?
I cannot not shed a tear during the National Anthem, it is a familiar sound associated with good and bad for me and I never know which chord of melody is going to spark my tear ducts. It changes every time. I'm tranced during those four minutes and if I could tell you where I go during it, I would, I would tell every person I ever meet.
Christ. Believe what you will, PLEASE, but do not ignore the idea of someone hanging on a cross. I'd never wish that on my worst enemy. I writh in pain just thinking about it and my throat turns dry, camels are walking through my mouth kicking up dusty sand. Unbelievable, unjust, and the magnitude of pain is not even feasible in my mind. I also have a deaf older sister, this picture has hung in her room ever since I can remember. I'm certain she and Christ have the most perfect hands,what her hands and what Christ's hands do/done, astonishing. Watching her sign will melt the coldest most brisk heart. No doubt.
Watching my babysister play basketball is a gift, it's so pretty to me. She plays with her heart and there's nothing cooler.
Trees make me emotional. I wonder if I've always been that way. But my gracious, they fascinate me. I could stare at them all day, to the point of drooling, and I despise spit. That is how much I love them. Maybe it's because I grew up in a hurricane prone environment, early on I recognized their strength by their damage sometimes. Or, it could be because my grandpa always has a barn full of woodtools that always turned trees into something. Those somethings were often gifted to my family and kept in our home to make us feel closer to my grandpa. I can ask him to make me anything. Big thanks to trees for that. Does the shape make them beautiful, or does what I associate them with make me appreciate and covet them more?
There's a tremendous possibility that I misinterpreted this assignment, I know I was supposed to talk about lines and hues and logistics. I talked purely on feeling, but I wanted to talk moreso about feeling beauty and the way it spills out for me.
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