The Night Keeps Her Peace

Henri Rousseau, “The Sleeping Gypsy,” 1897.

The Night Keeps Her Peace

A lonely wayfaring gypsy, the lion seeks to devour, yet the night keeps her peace.

She travels, wandering, searching for those who will hear, giving her heart to those who only have an ear to give in return.

She does not worry, she is not anxious, for she has entered a covenant with her muse. She follows her passion as foam follows wave, and the night will keep her peace.

Her rod, her staff comforts her, a jar her sustenance contains, but the night, the night keeps her peace.

Family Ties

Carmen Lomas Garza, “Cumpleanos de Lala y Tudi,” 1989

Family Ties

Uncle Chucho pulls the pinata making it swing while Aunti Lala shakes her finger in disapproval, telling Uncle he is swinging it too fast for the little children to hit.

Aunt Maria and Linda gossip while Cousin Chica tends to the little ones that are rolling around the yard. Dirt sticks to their bare knees and wrists.

Uncle Tomas stands, as usual on the outside looking in — feeling and looking his part.

Abuelita bobbles the newest addition on her knee as Abuelito stands grinning behind her. The sweet smelling baby smiles at the twinkle in Abuelito’s eye, and the baby’s laugh bounces as lively as Abuelita’s knee.

The older cousins try to impress each other by looking unimpressed, while the middle cousins play marbles. They are completely absorbed in their game, and oblivious to their surroundings. The little cousins chase each other between their turns at the wildly swaying pinata.

Glory

 

Painting: Morning Glory Dew Drops, Lexi Sundell, 2013

Glory

I awoke to the sight of morning glories arrayed in a colorful abundance–little flowers each having a story of its own, each speaking the glory of growth, persistence, and strength. Each telling the story of transformation from seed to flower–the story of breakthrough and resilience. Each reminding me glory begins small, small as a seed, and grows with faith.

Purple Flower

---

Painting: Maria’s Flower. Lauren Mooney Bear. 2006

---

 Purple Flower

Inside the dirty trailer house, situated in the middle of a run down trailer park,  was not at all what I imagined it would be like inside one of those sturdy brick houses we passed on the way home. But through the window, a small trace of beauty could be found in the form of a solitary purple flower that stemmed from a patch of weeds. I would stare at this flower through my trailer house window, hoping for one of those brick houses with flowers everywhere you look, and family ties that ran as deep as the roots of the trees swaying gracefully in its perfectly manicured yard.

 On mornings,when the weather was more pleasant than the atmosphere inside, I would climb out the window and jump the four feet to the ground. I would take a few steps forward, kneel down, and stare at the flower that gave me so much hope. I could never bring myself to pluck this flower, for even at the tender age of three and a half, I knew that beauty was a precious, fleeting thing, and hope even more so.

   

Greenlight

Painting: “Night Traffic Lights” Leonid Afremov

---

The greenlight speaks to me in lucent, symbolic voice, signaling me to freedom. The light prompts me to break away from the bondage of failure’s safety net. It guides me. It slowly and patiently tempts me to touch the bright light of the winner’s circle. The light signals me to subdue my fear–to submerge it in the water of life’s rivers until it sinks, never to murmur its terrors again.  The greenlight tells me all is well, and to travel on with steady legs as I was born to do–the way I did before the fears of success made my knees knock. Fearlessly. Ceaselessly. Successfully.

 

Gabby

---

Little Dog  1888. Henri De Toulouse Lautrec.

---

Gabby

Wordless not voiceless,

Love and acceptance are her language.

She speaks an infinite volume with one understanding glance

And a lick that says

I love you.

 

My Emergence

Painting: Victoria Horkan

---

My growth as an individual is painful when pangs of separation from my former, dependent self stab at my heart, and freeing when possibilities of independence set my soul aflame. My identity is refined as the intricacies of my soul  burn–smelting, extracting precious metals from the ore of my previous existence. A recreation of the old girl emerges as the caterpillar from its dark tomb, and a surprisingly new, independent woman steps out upon the world.

 

A Response to Albert Bierdstat’s Study for the Last of the Buffalo

---

The mares rear in alarm just as Bierdstat when he imagines the last–the last hooves beating, the last bulk of muscle thick and stout as locomotives thundering to their doom. The mares are left unfinished for a time as Bierdstat cannot bear the thought of the last buffalo gone.