The 11th of August 2013

Now, more than ever, I am certain of the importance of silence in the understanding of mortality.  Not during the thrushes of emotional chemicals from the amygdale in the brain to the body's flight or fight, nor during the passion that binds two souls in an ancient, instinctual effort to create life, are we reminded of the fragility of human clay.  But, only in the moments of our solitude do the shadows of our existence creep behind our glassy eyes, and like mirrors we reflect inward to sense our imminent end.  When our love is gone and we search our empty homes and beds, when the day's work is over and all that's left is what fills our heads; how like a tiny, blue robin's egg we feel!  We  are perched in a nest, afraid to emerge and afraid to fall. 

The older I get the more I realize there's no amount of church, of food, of paper in the world to make me happy.  So rather than invest in an expensive anything, I'd rather seek to surround myself with a work that is satisfying and people who care about me as much as I care about them.  Rather than listen to a priest guessing at the content of my character or the context of my need, I want to dedicate myself to finding more solitude for rifling the atoms of my spirit so that I can fill them with electrons of love.  I want everyone I touch to know that I love them by how my actions make them feel, rather than words, broken in capability and bound by the limits of language.  

The 1st of May 2013

He's Sleeping in the Other Room

The sun, tide, wind, water,
Constantly rise and fall,
Be at rest,
now and,
always.

Day 318
Oil on Canvas
Art by Valerie Dowdy
@ www.valeriedowdy.com  

The 18th day of April 2013

My Husband

His shoulders slope.
They embody the worn out mountains
Of Appalachia with quiet, eternal hope,
and the coal covered fountains,
or streams that trickle and grope
the ground, rocking with laughter or tears.

His hands rest in a fold.

They are the basket woven by someone’s Grandma Gert,
and the patchwork quilt she sewed,
Or the stitches that healed the hurt
they’re ready to pray for reasons brought by the years.

His eyes shine.
They are the bright sun in the blue sky, and the stars at night.
Beneath the rock, downward, he goes,
but his eyes are brighter than his head light--
a little lamp that leads him. He knows
the noises of the deep, black, below-ground fears.

His muscle and bone, carry me to bed.
His skin and lips, make my cheeks turn red.
His body and soul are tangled with mine, until we’re dead.

Day 19 by Valerie Dowdy
8x10 oils
$100
@ www.valeriedowdy.com