She helps me see

While working in the garden this afternoon, the start of a new song came into my head. I love when that happens, and it sometimes does.

Thankfully, my phone wasn’t far away, so I recorded the simple melody and words.

She helps me see.

So I can be…

More me…

She’s my friend, an artist, an illustrator. We’ve been having an ongoing conversation about calling ourselves artists. About what it’s all for and how it’s so scary.

Her art is visual. She also writes stories.

She helps me see.

And she helps me feel seen.

This year, more than ever, I have started to understand how much and how many reasons there are — for why art matters.

And in the little break I’ve taken from blogging, I can see how much it has started to matter to me. Its absence has been noticeable in strange ways.

It’s on the page that I figure out what I see. It’s on the literal pages of my journal, and here in this virtual cloud — that I try to make meaning of it all… because seeking meaning is something I crave deeply.

Maybe I’m just making it up, but isn’t that all we’re doing in our weird little worlds anyways.

Making it up as we go along.