The silences between what I am reading or what I am writing are not silences at all, though if you were watching me I might appear to be doing nothing. Actually, those pauses, pregnant thoughts, vast spaces where I plunge and leap, are attempts to understand that elusive question that hangs in the balance of art — the passion and the pain. It is one in the same; it is a joy that is so great that to experience it for a moment is excruciating because we cannot stay there; it is a glimpse of heaven.
A painting, a poem, a tilt of on object on a bookshelf; the stars before dawn, the colors of sunset, the mosaic of stones in a fast running stream — beauty that takes our breath and restores us. We ask questions of art; we seek the I Am inspiration off all beauty, we want to know the God who we mimic in our micro reflections of His greater creation. My hand glides down, the brush heavy with wet paint, and for a moment the blending of the hues, a gush of water and color, reminds me of the spear at His side, the moment they checked for life, the moment all life was offered eternity, the beauty of sacrifice, and my hand rests in the significance of such truth.
I capture words on a page, tittles and dots that march into place as I hope for meaning to cry out to anyone who might rest curious eyes on this page, and I am impressed with the power of language and the sufficient perfection of His Word.
I see a stage play, the small variations of a face, like clay molded by an internal sculptor, the actor knowing how the downcast of eyes or purse of a lip will display whole emotions for me to digest.
I am content to reflect what little I understand in whatever medium He gifts me by my own hands or in the interpretation of art I observe. It is not that beauty is in the eye of the beholder — it is a willingness, a humility, a subjection to God and release of self that allows us to see more fully, for beauty just is.
—C.L. Fisher, April 2020
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Poetic Meanderings 