My designs unchanged remain,
Time may rage but rage in fain.
High above Time’s troubled fountains,
On the great Atlantic mountains,
In my golden house on high,
There they shine eternally. — William Blake
Some days I wish I was a painter. Some days it seems like the only thing that will free what is in me is a flash of orange before the eye, laid on thick with ridges and fissures. Tactile. Bold. Loud. Visible.
But then I remember two red trees by the pillars at the edge of Chapel Field. The two thin trees that go invisible in their green clothing and in their stark naked months. Today, they dance to life against all the green.
Their leaves are the color of the tube of cranberry sauce I always pass on at Thanksgiving. They stand there still, still in their space. What they are made to do. When they are made to do it. They make me sigh out all the air that I hoard in my lungs. Then, they make me smile.
So it is with me, with us. We may long to be what we are not – painters or writers, sinners or saints – but it is when we are what we are, when I am what I am, that the One who sees us for all that we are made to be sighs out in delight and then smiles. Smiles the grin that lights the universe.
Today, may you live all that you are made to be, nothing more and nothing less. May you feel the Smile that delights in you.