~

living well,
it is an art.
life...
it comes to us
a canvas white,
but in the early
light of day
begins to add
the palest grays,
the hues from this
begin to change,
transforms in
colored shades
the joys,
the glories
and the pain.
painted in most
ardent strokes;
the boldest lines
from artist’s hand
from palette knife
his color band,
its composition
each displays
in full array,
the loving well
of ones we’re given.

though death,
it hovers
its distant border,
it frames life’s art,
and wraps its gift;
our words in ink
are painted black
our spoken love
in paper back,
cradles it
from dawn to dusk,
enables it,
displays for us
the life of it,
it adds the soul,
the why of it and
makes exquisite
art of it.

yes, even
this our end
explains the how,
the when to make
the best of it,
to live amidst
the zest of it,
and thrive though
when bereft of it.
that in the knowing,
and the viewing,
the vowing,
and the doing,
we behold
the wonder of it;
and we can say
while yet in
mortal frame...
we loved our best,
and gave the rest
...away!

~

*post script.

the art of living well is all in the preparation... for our passing.

death, like a frame around life, makes it stand out in exquisite display; helps us to appreciate every life and every moment as art.

there is beauty in the desert... for suffering is not an absence of beauty, but an opportunity to understand love on a deeper level and behold the glory of the gift of life.

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/03/how-to-recover-the-lost-art-of-dying-well-what-kara-tippetts-taug­ht-us/

inspired by the reading, the hearing of Kara Tippetts life, her battle and her ultimate triumph. knowing her story is changing mine.  there are many borrowed snippets in this composition, words, phrases and paraphrased thoughts.

She is six, and searching for answers to questions that she cannot yet ask.
Baby, I tell her,
There are things that are broken,
And people with hearts like hammers that are trying to fix them,
Bang! Bang! Bang! Build.
Sweet-souled strangers, tending this planets bruises,
Sharing in its peoples pain.
There are children without water,
Women half dead from bearing them,
People in fear for their lives for speaking of forbidden futures, believing in the wrong god, or no god,
Or worshipping the right god wrong.
Starvation, disease, segregation, genocide, despair,
Beings in agony; others angry, warped, with sad, distorted minds,
The symptoms of a sick and stunted world.
Baby, I tell her,
You will find words to frame the questions that right now I can see behind your eyes.
You are the daughter of a dreamer,
You are trying to find your stories,
Your heart will be a hammer,
Driving your words into this weary, war-fatigued world,
Bang! Bang! Bang! Build.
*It cannot be borne, it will not be borne.

Do you mean what
you say
Do you say what
you mean?
Is this some kind of dream?

You brought me in here
you held me so close
you whispered my name
in that breathy kind of way
which I know
will sing
through
to
the last refrain.

Your eyes they softened
your touch it awakened
I surrendered to you
I held on too long.

I know now
with your leaving
soon
I'll go back to the room
from where I came
I'll be crying your name.

Do you mean what you say
do you say what you mean
Do you really always see me that way?

I thought there was
something so new
something about you
that burned
each night
through and through.

Now our eyes look beyond,
the golden ribbon is cut
lays tattered
in the changing winds
while you walked one way
I walked another
thinking about your spoken words
which said what they meant
and meant what they said.

Now what is left to say
will stay
unspoken.