Rachel E. Watson: Search results for Fine Art Friday

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In my book, this has been one of Michigan's loveliest autumns. The weather has been comfortably cool without being too cold, and the trees have been such brilliant hues of red ...

A maple near my office in Walker, Michigan. (Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

yellow ...

The tree in my front yard. (Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

and all the colors of the spectrum ...

Trees along M-46 between Lakeview and Edmore. (Photo: Becky Howard)

It makes me want to take time out to confess that of all the fine art I could possibly enjoy and celebrate in this world, whether it's music, poetry, film, literature, painting or other visual arts, none of them could exist were it not for the Creator by whose power the universe was formed.

And who can top the beauty in His world?

Today, while I was walking on the trail that cuts through my office park, a strong wind rushed through the trees and set them to swaying, and a golden brown leaf tornado spun up from the ground as I watched.

In that moment, hymns began playing, one after another, in the symphony of my mind. These are the hymns I heard:

"For the Beauty of the Earth"

For the beauty of the earth,

For the glory of the skies,

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies;

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour

Of the day and of the night,

Hill and vale, and tree and flower,

Sun and moon, and stars of light;

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of human love,

Brother, sister, parent, child,

Friends on earth and friends above,

For all gentle thoughts and mild;

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our hymn of grateful praise.

"This Is My Father's World"

This is my Father's world,

And to my listening ears

All nature sings, and round me rings

The music of the spheres.

This is my Father's world:

I rest me in the thought

Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;

His hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father's world,

The birds their carols raise,

The morning light, the lily white,

Declare their maker's praise.

This is my Father's world:

He shines in all that's fair;

In the rustling grass I hear him pass;

He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father's world.

O let me ne'er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

God is the ruler yet.

This is my Father's world:

The battle is not done

Jesus who died shall be satisfied

And earth and heaven be one.

"How Great Thou Art"

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!

When through the woods and forest glades I wander
I hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees,
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,
And hear the brook and feel a gentle breeze:

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!

I'm so thankful for Creator God, the finest artist, the best composer, The Word Who Became Flesh.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Earlier this week, I was reading an article about a diver who found a cluster of shipwrecks off the coast of the Island of Skillagee, between Cross Village and Beaver Island in Lake Michigan.

The reporter describes the waters as particularly hazardous in the days before advanced navigation tools, because a "pair of treacherous underwater tentacles in the form of shallow gravel shoals" stretch out from the island in otherwise deep waters, causing ships to founder.

The diver, Ross Richardson, theorizes one of the wrecks is the 150-foot brig Julia Dean, which foundered in 1855, and the other was the 226-foot-long A.D. Patchin, a wooden steamship that was lost in 1850.

I've always been eerily fascinated by shipwrecks. I don't feel that way about plane crashes or train wrecks, so I have to attribute it to the fact that it's the whole concept of the vessel's remains being hidden from view in a watery grave, waiting to be discovered for centuries. It really gets me.

I think about being a diver, coming around the bend inside a wreck, scared out of my wits by a shark hiding in the wreckage, or the sight of a long-decayed skeleton trapped in some compartment.

I went so far as to start searching for more shipwreck images to share, because, well, they're beautiful.

Please enjoy this collection I've gathered for you from the Interwebs.

"Unknown Shipwreck" (Photo: Jakub Sisak)

This shot is of photographer and diver Andreas Franke installing his photo
exhibit. The images are of living actors layered over scenes from a shipwreck
off the coast of Florida. He installed the images on the shipwreck itself, creating
a creepy, meta underwater photo gallery of what life might have been like
on the ship. It was called "The Vandenberg: Life Below the Surface."
(Photo: TheCoolist.com)

"Shipwreck in Mediterranean Sea," oil on canvas by A.A. Orlinski

"Shipwreck," drawing/digital art by Rodolfo Guerreiro

Photograph of the cargo vessel Plassey, shipwrecked off the coast of Inis Oirr in the 1960s.

"Inverness Wreck," photo by Athena Carey

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Making the path wider

Four feet wide, the notice said.

No ice, no slush, no hard-packed snow

Or else your neighbors will slip and fall,

And we will send you a fine.

Seven to ten we shoveled,

Working in shifts to stay warm

One thawing inside while the other

Scraped and salted the walk.

Teamwork, this is what it is

Edge to edge for 25 feet

Removing winter’s evidence

Just in this one spot.

What will tomorrow bring?

Sore shoulders and more snow,

The knowledge we’ve prevailed,

And hopefully a nap.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Gil Bender (Owen Wilson) roams the streets in "Midnight in Paris."

It's been awhile since I've written a movie review, amid all my other writing pursuits.

I could not, however, overlook Woody Allen's brilliant little gem, "Midnight in Paris" (2011).

My sister invited me to view it with her (she wanted to see it a second time before she had to return it to the library), so I went and watched it with her on Monday.

The characters

The story is about a fictional American writer and filmmaker, Gil Bender (Owen Wilson), who visits Paris with his fiancee, Inez (Rachel McAdams). While in the city, he experiences world-alteringly weird and cool stuff.

Gil is The Best. His name proves it. If you're a writer or creative type, or if you appreciate creativity, you'll love this guy. He is smart, witty, humble and not terribly ambitious, but he persistently pursues his craft. Which is why he's in Paris to begin with. He wants to write The Great American Novel as an ex-pat, like so many before him have done. Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway. The list goes on.

But his fiancee won't move there with him. She wants to live in Hollywood forever, getting rich off Gil's filmmaking career.

Inez is The Worst. If you're a decent human being of any kind, you'll think rich, spoiled Inez, and her indulgent and clueless parents, Helen (Mimi Kennedy) and John (Kurt Fuller) should all be pushed into a lake.

Inez is cloyingly flirtatious with an old college pal, Paul (Michael Sheen), whom the group bumps into at a restaurant. (Cue foreshadowy, ominous music).

At every turn, she thwarts Gil's plans to gather inspiration and spend time alone writing. She belittles his ambitions. She only cares about jewelry and shopping. She is That Girl, a broad-strokes caricature of a shallow, self-absorbed woman.

The conflict

Here's the thing: Inez feels very real. That's because Woody Allen gives her a legitimate desire, the desire to be loved and admired. He then twists it like a snake bite until we are writhing in agony, seething in frustration with her and even with lovable Gil. They keep miscommunicating, reinforcing a cycle of blow-ups and hang-ups.

The love and beauty

The movie's thumping heartbeat, though, is neither of these two vibrant lead characters. The film's sweet and tender core is its loving homage to literature, music, art and the character of Paris. The streets are filled with it, at all hours of the day — especially after midnight. Gil discovers this in an original and thrilling plot twist pretty early on in the film.

You'll have to watch the movie to fully know what I mean. I can't say more without spoilers.

Meanwhile, check out this clip from one of my favorite scenes. (Warning: It does contain spoilers. In my opinion, though, the spoilers won't ruin your appetite for the movie, if you decide to watch it.)

Confused? Delighted? Want to watch the whole thing and find out more? Good. Mission accomplished. :)

Chicken noodle soup reposes in a bowl.

An Ode to Stock

By Rachel Watson

You’re the essence, the marrow

The life, the core.

You lend your healing power

When my throat’s sore.

You’re yellow, hot and briny

So savory good.

I slurp you straight from my spoon

Like sick folk should.

I find you in the market

Premade for me.

Which means someone spent those hours

And now I’m free.

I add wilting vegetables

With garlic kiss.

Chunks of chicken, loads of herbs

To liquid bliss.

A meal I’ve made from the earth

A pot of stew.

Thanks to your willing bounty,

I just ate soup.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

It's time to get serious about this blog. (Photo: Free images)

I learned a thing or two about blogging during a workshop at Jot Writers' Conference last weekend. It's time to put those ideas into practice.

My main takeaway from the workshop was that, in order to find success — that is, to gain and retain readers — a blogger should be consistent in how often s/he posts, and should have a clear mission, i.e., a theme, for the blog.

With that in mind, I'd like to articulate my plan for this space going forward. This is my commitment to you, my readers:

I will update the blog three times per week: Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays.
I will write about what I know and what I like. I've done a thorough content audit of my past posts, and I'm confident the structure I have in mind will work well with my areas of interest and expertise. If you like what I like, then this will be the blog for you.

With those two goals in mind, here are the themes to which I'll stick on each of the three days I'll post:

Groovy Tuesday

Music is one of my top passions in life. (Photo: Free images)

Tuesdays will be devoted to waxing eloquent about music. I'm no expert musician — although I did take piano lessons for 10 years — but I'm very good at appreciating the stuffing out of music. I learned how to critique it intelligently in my college Music Appreciation 101 class. (Thanks, Professor Vandermark!) In that class, I also learned how many types of music I enjoy — which is almost every type I've heard so far.

I love to review concerts, albums and share new music discoveries. I'll make it my goal on Tuesdays to expose you to as wide a variety of tunes as you can possibly handle.

I will welcome your suggestions and recommendations, too.

Fine Art Friday

The world is a colorful place. (Photo: Free images)

On Fridays, I'll talk about poetry, visual arts, drama, film and sometimes other categories of literature. I might discuss more music on this day, too — most likely classical or sacred music.

With ArtPrize coming up, I'll plan to do a couple of posts about what I see there during the competition.

Storytelling Sunday

Oh, books! I love you so much. (Photo: Free images)

I am a journalist. Storytelling Sunday will offer a chance for me to share tidbits about what I'm learning at work.

It also will give me a chance to review a book here and there.

But, primarily, Sunday will be the day of the week on which I'll share the tales of what's been happening in my life, from people I've met to places I've been to events in the past to goals for the future.

I'll tell other people's stories as part of that. If there's one thing I love about being a journalist, it's that I get to share the untold stories. The fact that I and my fellow journalists are entrusted with this responsibility is a delightful miracle. I don't take it for granted.

My first Groovy Tuesday

I'll keep this first one brief.

The song below, "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked," is by Cage the Elephant. It was released in 2009 in the U.S. after its 2008 debut in the UK.

The first time I heard it and really listened closely was when it came on my Pandora Black Keys station a few months ago while I was running at the YMCA. [The Black Keys fuel my running playlists many days of the week.]

I find value in this song because it illustrates how no kid dreams of growing up to be a drug dealer or prostitute, but a series of unfortunate events, choices or circumstances certainly can make it seem like the only option. And, once you get in, it's hard to get out.

Listen via the YouTube video below, and try to absorb its emotional impact.

What do you think of the song?

Now that you've had a chance to listen to it, I'd love to hear from you. Leave me a comment here or over at my Facebook Community page.

This is the sheet music to Rachmaninoff's "Vespers, Op. 37."

This post is about a beautiful kind of classical music I recently learned to love: sacred music, specifically vespers.

Since I was not raised in a liturgical tradition, I was unfamiliar with the concept of canonical hours, including vespers, the evening prayer, until very recently.

For the uninitiated, canonical hours are periods of prayer throughout the day.

My first exposure to the concept of vespers (thank you, YouTube) was Sergei Rachmaninoff's "All-Night Vigil, Vespers, Op. 37," written in 1915. It's an a capella composition for the Russian Orthodox Church — which, interestingly, Rachmaninoff did not attend at the time of writing — using its liturgical chants as source material for the first six movements.

Have a listen:

Isn't that beautiful? After my first hearing, I haven't been able to get those lovely sounds out of my head. Not that I want to.

The lyrics, translated below, remind me of a hymn I grew up singing: "Come Let Us Worship and Bow Down."

Here are the English words to Rachmaninoff's Vespers:

"All-Night Vigil, Vespers, Op. 37, O Come and Worship"

Amen.

O come, let us worship before the Lord our Maker.
O come, let us worship and fall down
before the Lord Christ, our God and Maker.
O come, let us worship and fall down
and kneel before the Very Christ,
our God and Maker.
O come, let us worship and fall down before Him.

That's just the first movement. The complete piece has 15 movements and would take more than an hour to hear.

So, if you ever have an hour to kill and feel yourself in need of healing via complete and utter peace and beauty, I highly recommend it.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

I came across this beautiful poem today that captures so eloquently how I feel about this transitional time, when autumn's colors quickly fade, the winds blow, and the earth is laid bare, waiting to be kissed by a blanket of snow.

My favorite line from the poem, perhaps, is "The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag."

The other day, I imagined myself a painter as I beheld a cluster of trees on the horizon. I wondered how my brush could ever capture the twisted blackness of those limbs, layered in the foreground against a backdrop of more limbs, stretching ever backward through the forest, with hints of gray sky peeking through. The winds had all but ripped away the last of the curled yellow leaves.

I'm not a painter, so my brush may never craft that scene. But I'll forever celebrate the blank lined sheet with which a poet begins. The page is the canvas, the words are paint, and the poem is a finished scene.

In that spirit, may I present Madison Cawein:

"Under Arcturus"

By Madison Cawein (1865-1914)

I

"I belt the morn with ribboned mist;
With baldricked blue I gird the noon,
And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,
White-buckled with the hunter's-moon.

"These follow me," the Season says:
"Mine is the frost-pale hand that packs
Their scrips, and speeds them on their ways,
With gypsy gold that weighs their backs."

II

A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,
As with a sun-tanned hand he parts
Wet boughs whereon the berry glows;
And at his feet the red fox starts.

The leafy leash that holds his hounds
Is loosed; and all the noonday hush
Is startled; and the hillside sounds
Behind the fox's bounding brush.

When red dusk makes the western sky
A fire-lit window through the firs,
He stoops to see the red fox die
Among the chestnut's broken burrs.

Then fanfaree and fanfaree,
His bugle sounds; the world below
Grows hushed to hear; and two or three
Soft stars dream through the afterglow.

III

Like some black host the shadows fall,
And blackness camps among the trees;
Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,
Grows populous with mysteries.

Night comes with brows of ragged storm,
And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;
The rain-wind hangs upon his arm
Like some wild girl who cries unkissed.

By his gaunt hands the leaves are shed
In headlong troops and nightmare herds;
And, like a witch who calls the dead,
The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.

Then all is sudden silence and
Dark fear -- like his who cannot see,
Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,
Death rattling on a gallow's-tree.

IV

The days approach again; the days
Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag,
When in the haze by puddled ways
The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag.

When rotting orchards reek with rain;
And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;
And in the drizzling yard again
The gourd is tagged with points of fog.

Now let me seat my soul among
The woods' dim dreams, and come in touch
With melancholy, sad of tongue
And sweet, who says so much, so much.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

Wildscape

By Rachel Watson

I met an old friend last night

in the wildscape of my dreams.

It had been a dozen years

since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting

at my mother’s kitchen table

in a sunny wildflow’r garden

next to the ladder on a treehouse.

He leaned back, tipping his chair,

with that middle-parted hair,

grinding deep grooves in the ground

while I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams

and living room horror film fests.

He smiled at me sardonically

and answered me laconically.

The years had not been kind:

I saw it in his gaunt, hollow features,

his spare, worn clothing,

and the cracks and stains in his nails.

How did such hardness spin

from a childhood I thought we shared?

Then I reflected that he held little

of my own family’s story, too.

For all I knew, he saw the garden,

the table, the treehouse, the chairs,

and pitied me in the way I pitied him

for not getting out. For staying put.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

Gratitude for You

When we say our prayers each night,

We thank God for each other, our home, our friends.

We thank Him for our furry companions,

Our vocations, our callings that intersect.

Over our families we speak a prayer for safety,

And blessing and love and gratitude,

We think of each sibling and parent

However nearby or however far away.

With humor, wit and joy we make our way

On a winding and sometimes thorny path

That is filled with reminders great and small

Of the oneness we’ve pledged to forge.

The winter creeps in and blankets our hearts,

Then the spring renews and cleanses.

The summer is a time of abundance and joy,

And the fall is a harvest of blessing.

Wherever we’re at in one of these seasons,

We’ll have a hand to hold and a heart to cherish,

A home to call our own, just yours and mine,

Because I've got you and you've got me.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike star in "Gone Girl."

Last weekend, my dear husband and I went to see the box office hit "Gone Girl."

The movie is based on the bestselling novel by author Gillian Flynn, who also wrote the film's screenplay. It's directed by David Fincher — who's responsible for "Fight Club" and, more recently, "The Social Network" and "House of Cards." The cast includes Ben Affleck as Nick Dunne and Rosamund Pike as his wife, Amy Dunne.

Nick gets called home from work one day by a neighbor who says the Dunnes' cat has escaped the house and is hanging out in the driveway. When Nick goes home, he discovers signs of a struggle, and his wife is nowhere to be found. A police investigation and media frenzy ensues, and we're given a tour of the Dunnes' formerly happy five-year marriage via Amy's journal entries read in voiceover.

Before watching the movie, I read a couple of reviews for my job that described it as a psycho-satire and suburban noir.

I think both of those descriptors are apt, the former because main character Nick is no Liam Neeson straight-man/hero, and the latter because this is not your typical tidy missing-wife drama. None of the characters are truly likable, not even the ones we root for.

All of that aside, there's one thing that's been sticking with me since my husband and I discussed the movie.

He said that while he thought the story was gripping and engrossing, he didn't think it said anything about real life, and that's ultimately why he wouldn't give it five stars.

I've been thinking a lot about that. While I agree the psychotic plot twists don't come close to mirroring anything in our life, I think the film does comment on reality.

Marriage is a character in this movie, and so is the media. The protagonists are shaped and changed by both, just as we all are in reality.

Nick and Amy Dunne's relationship plays out in an extreme way, but it is an example of unchecked human dysfunction and psychoses. We can find similar examples in history or even in present-day reality.

I just hope I don't have to run into any of them. ;)

Share your perspective

If you've seen the movie — and please, no spoilers for those who haven't — I'd like to hear if it speaks to you about real life. Leave me a comment here or over at my Facebook page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

You left me abruptly

Two months ago

Waiting for your next move,

I held my pen

I needed you greatly

In those long days

The air was thick and still,

And you hid well

If I’d known you’d desert me

I would have planned

Instead of waiting here,

Cautious and closed

You’re back now but slowly

My pen resumes

Writing with your guidance,

I toast to you

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

Snow. It binds us to itself with love-hate intensity. We romanticize it on greeting cards and fantasize about those first, magical flakes each winter ...

... but then we also complain when there's too much of it, when it clogs the roads and bridges and sidewalks, when it falls continuously, windswept from roofs and trees, packed against our cars and homes, multiplying toil and burying all that is living and prosperous.

Let's face it. It IS dangerous. It traps and blinds, it coats and freezes, steals loved ones away, relentless in its quest to cover the northern lands for a season or two.

I don't deny any of that. I don't deny that for me, it announces the dark season, the one that leaves me feeling trapped and blue, affected by the lack of sunlight, pulled into a melancholy not of my choosing.

But I can't ignore its beauty even as I curse its cruelty.

Here's a poem that celebrates that wondrous paradox.

"Snow-flakes"

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

And here is its beautiful theme song, shared with me earlier this week by a blog reader:

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

I've been waiting excitedly all week to share these poems with you, readers, and tell you just why they mean so much to me.

They were introduced to me in various literature classes in college — the place I learned to truly appreciate poetry. Before that, I'd read bits of poetry here and there, but the discussions on a higher level in college, with professors adept at literary criticism, opened a new world of words to me.

Without further ado, here are the three short poems I love:

Is there anything more melancholy and beautiful than fog? (Photo: Free images)

"Fog," by Carl Sandburg, 1916

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

I love the metaphor of fog being like a cat, coming to observe. It's in the city, but not really of the city. It springs up seemingly out of nowhere. It makes no sound and can scarcely be felt. But its presence is by turns eerie, soothing, mysterious, aloof or comforting.

Cats are just like that. They steal your heart and win your cautious respect.

"So sweet and so cold." (Photo: Free images)

"This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams, 1934

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

This poem is written like an apology note on the kitchen counter. It tickles my funny bone. It makes me think of how sometimes, the food being saved for a special occasion — whatever it may be — is more tempting than the food that's freely available. We're all human; we all feel the pull of forbidden fruit.

Reading this poem made you hungry for plums, didn't it? You weren't even thinking about them until I shared this, were you?

The innocence of a child. (Photo: Free images)

My Papa's Waltz, by Theodore Roethke, 1942

The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother’s countenance

Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist

Was battered on one knuckle;

At every step you missed

My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head

With a palm caked hard by dirt,

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

This poem, admittedly, is very bittersweet. I remember being disappointed and angry after I first read it — angry that the poet would celebrate drunkenness in verse. Alcoholism isn't something to laud, my college self said.

But eventually, I peeled back the layers and found beauty underneath. The more I've thought about it over the years, the more I have come to realize Roethke did what artists the world over strive to do: Make something honest and beautiful out of something broken.

The poem illustrates that troubled people show love in troubling ways. It's love that's as imperfect as love always will be this side of heaven.

I haven't read much about Roethke beyond his Wikipedia page, but I'm willing to bet the poem is autobiographical. I'm thankful he took his pain and spun a refrain. (Ha! See, I'm a poet, too. ;)

Share your favorite poem

Can you think of a poem that has affected you deeply? I'd love to hear about it. Leave me a comment here or over at my Facebook Community page.

Robin Williams as Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society."

Last night, my husband spent some time reading poetry aloud to me. One of the things he read was Walt Whitman's tribute to Abraham Lincoln after his assassination, "O Captain! My Captain," which was made more significant to our generation by its mention in the film "Dead Poets Society."

The tears rained down my cheeks as I traveled 150 years backward into our nation's history and tried to imagine the heartbreak I'd feel if Lincoln had been my leader and I'd lost him. I commented to Adam that I again felt the transcendence of creativity as I cried over words written so long ago, by a man who is dead, for a man who died. That words should live so long in our collective memory and carry so much power truly is a beautiful mystery.

Do verses penned in our time hold such sway over our souls? For me, the answer is yes.

The other day, my mind was drifting into the past, and a song an old friend wrote came to me.

I googled the lyrics I could remember and was startled to find that there is no trace of the song anywhere online, despite the fact that it was recorded on an album of his from 10-plus years ago. I still have that album, and it's almost unlistenable because I've over-loved it through the years. The latter tracks are scratched beyond repair, which include the song I'm thinking of: "Grieve."

The only place I can play the CD is in my car; it skips too much when I try to use my computer. So this morning, I sat in my car in the garage listening to it over and over so I could transcribe the lyrics before it's totally unplayable.

Since the song's beauty and melancholy have stuck with me, I want to share the lyrics with you today, in hopes they will connect with your heart like they've stayed in mine.

I only wish I could share a recording of it, too.

"Grieve," by Titus Cole

She put her feet on the cold, hard floor

Glanced in the mirror and walked out the door

I wonder, how can she be so sure?

She lives her life as if

She’s a flag on a hill who just can’t catch a drift

Of wind to help her to unfurl

Ooh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh at the pain that we’ve both been through

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

If God in heaven has changed your mind and

If you now know what it means to be blinded by others,

And the whims of falsity

If the rumors I hear are true

Then why am I standing lonely and blue on the brink?

Hopelessness is constancy

Oh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh to think of such a pair of fools

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

[Instrumental interlude]

As long as there are tears left to cry

As long as there is any truth left to deny

I now realize

That I will love you still

And if you never give a thought to me

And even if age should come to claim me

I realize

That I will love you still

Oh I know what I have to do

And I laugh every time that I think of you

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

And I grieve for you

I grieve for you

I grieve

That verse, "She lives her life as if // she's a flag on a hill who just can't catch a drift // Of wind, to help her to unfurl" resonates with me greatly. I remember feeling that way so often throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, and even sometimes still, as I doubt my own abilities to write.

As members of the human race, we know there are gifts inside us, but we need help opening up to them and displaying them for the world. This is what people like Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society" can do for us. They can see our hidden gifts and coax them out into the light.

Today, I'm thankful for the teachers and coaches among us. I'm thankful for artistic talent. And I'm thankful for the transcendent power of the written word.

What about you?

I'd love to hear from you if there's a song, poem, story or artwork that won't let you go, even after years and years. Leave me a comment here or at my Facebook Community page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Rachel E. Watson

"For the Beauty of the Earth"

"This Is My Father's World"

"How Great Thou Art"

Making the path wider

An Ode to Stock

By Rachel Watson

Groovy Tuesday

Fine Art Friday

Storytelling Sunday

My first Groovy Tuesday

What do you think of the song?

"All-Night Vigil, Vespers, Op. 37, O Come and Worship"

"Under Arcturus"

Wildscape

Gratitude for You

Share your perspective

"Snow-flakes"

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Fog," by Carl Sandburg, 1916

"This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams, 1934

My Papa's Waltz, by Theodore Roethke, 1942

Share your favorite poem

"Grieve," by Titus Cole

What about you?

About Me

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