21/10/2013
17/10/2013
04/10/2013
02/10/2013
I Long To Sit in this meadows...
Oh , the lovely Autumn has come and I long to sit in this meadows at the back of my college. To listen to the late summer hum. To wonder at the bowed heads of wilting grass-blades. To drink in the gorgeous array of colour of the surrounding trees and the smell of their dew-dripping leaves. To feel the light breeze and to smell the rain sodden earth. This I love. This feels like home.
I would want to paint. To know the exhilaration of putting paint to paper in hope of coming close to what I see and feel here. To be reminded that my palette of watercolor just cannot do justice to what's at my feet. To go home from this place knowing I can look back through the pages of my sketchbook and be here again.
I would want to knit. To sit here with wools the colors of the field, running through my fingers and needles. Indeed I would rename the fibers as they fair-isled into a yarn painting: Autumn Grass, Dew Drop, Goldenrod, and Clover Hay. And each time I wore the finished piece I'd be able to smell the earth and hear the sounds of my field.
I would want to write. To craft words that represent each blade of grass, wheat, and wild flower. Letters that give real-time meaning to the other-worldly air I breathe here. Words that would be carefully crafted as if I had knit them...or painted them.
But I've come to my field without any of these. Just to sit and take it all in. I breathe in and out. I gaze and marvel. I ruminate. I try to cease all thought. And then I close my eyes. Something trickles down my cheeks. It is then that I have a thought I've never had before---perhaps all the paintings in watercolor and yarn, all the sketches and drawings, the knitted and crocheted creations, are tear-shaped drops that reflect the beauty that's all around me. Perhaps a need to create is a way of exhaling it out, a way of crying to the Universe that it is so beautiful and I must make something of it or else I'd simply weep everywhere I go.
_Portia Burton,
Cambridge, October 2, 2013
I would want to paint. To know the exhilaration of putting paint to paper in hope of coming close to what I see and feel here. To be reminded that my palette of watercolor just cannot do justice to what's at my feet. To go home from this place knowing I can look back through the pages of my sketchbook and be here again.
I would want to knit. To sit here with wools the colors of the field, running through my fingers and needles. Indeed I would rename the fibers as they fair-isled into a yarn painting: Autumn Grass, Dew Drop, Goldenrod, and Clover Hay. And each time I wore the finished piece I'd be able to smell the earth and hear the sounds of my field.
I would want to write. To craft words that represent each blade of grass, wheat, and wild flower. Letters that give real-time meaning to the other-worldly air I breathe here. Words that would be carefully crafted as if I had knit them...or painted them.
But I've come to my field without any of these. Just to sit and take it all in. I breathe in and out. I gaze and marvel. I ruminate. I try to cease all thought. And then I close my eyes. Something trickles down my cheeks. It is then that I have a thought I've never had before---perhaps all the paintings in watercolor and yarn, all the sketches and drawings, the knitted and crocheted creations, are tear-shaped drops that reflect the beauty that's all around me. Perhaps a need to create is a way of exhaling it out, a way of crying to the Universe that it is so beautiful and I must make something of it or else I'd simply weep everywhere I go.
_Portia Burton,
Cambridge, October 2, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)