I Am The Number 50

A day in the Smokies always fixes whatever is mis-aligned in me.  My thoughts tumble over the river-rocks of my problems, and begin to run clear, cool, and compelling.  Paint, prose, and poetry happen easily up there.

After all, I can travel to all the places.  All the magic, artful places.  But my life won't become artful until I become artful.  

And the art is found in the attention I pay to what is.

In that primitive and special mountain spot, I remember that I have the capacity to turn ordinary occasions into living portraiture, simply by the focus of my attention.  When I choose the all-there moment, I know I've put myself in that space where "art is inevitable", and poems too.

I know for sure things like "poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance."

So there I was, night before last, light-speckled and paint-stained, and completely content to simply be.  I'm always in imminent danger of writing poetry on days like that.

I Am The Number 50

I am the number 50
A good way from the beginning and
A good way from the end
I am silver dandelion fluff
Scattering seed
Remembering truth
Forgetting facts
And believing
For the first time
That there was
Good music in the 80's

*thank you to my daughter Hannah McConnell for this poignant capture...I still say you are a photographer in the making.
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