Word of the Week - 101

 

 

 

Paintings by Kristin Vestgard.

 Word(s) of the Week: IN SPITE OF 

 

"Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart longs for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. " ~Yeats

 

I experience periods of time during which I don't know much of anything.  Trying to keep one's mind a clear path seems an almost laughable goal.  Yet without the continual removal of debris with which we are bombarded, stuck becomes the only option.

 

So.  For the sake of peace and what might pass for sanity, I ignore the news as much as possible.   I refuse to engage in debate and carping.  I try not to develop spontaneous headaches over the nitpicky nettles of life such as outsourced tech support or customer service.  As best I can, I soldier on in spite of matters concerning health, finances and the frequently challenging business of living adaptively as an elderly creature, for there are always two sides to the ledger.

Kristin Vestgard's paintings show women as luminous beings in mist-filled surroundings that soften the harder edges of existence.  Harsh noises are muffled by fog, even the warning horn brings comfort.  It speaks of safe harbor, of being watched over.

Growing up during the days of air raid drills, images of atomic apocalypse always fresh, probably gave birth to the in-spite-of state of mind.  Just as I've decided not to worry about other cosmic bodies colliding with Earth or our Milky Way galaxy (Andromeda edges closer, but 4 billion years is by any measure a long time), I have the choice to surrender to reasonable fear over all that is unknown or to try and reach beyond that reality and catch hold of something different.

 

It seems I am responsible for the balance of my mind and the quiet of my spirit.  The in-spite-of option is not the same as being an ostrich.  I do know what's going on out there.   I don't choose to let it overtake what I also know to be true.  Like the once-popular song about walking on the sunny side of the street, "I used to walk in the shade with the blues on parade."   I'm still in the process of recovering from most of a lifetime of angst, a process almost as slow as the predicted Milky Way/Andromeda collision.  I write of this for a recent morning brought unquiet moments when I stepped away from my preferred modus operandi.  I felt the disturbance in every part of my body.

 

My antique dealer brother-in-law tells of an auctioneer he knew early on in his collecting career, a man who would offer an item for bid and describe it as being "...broke, but it ain't broke bad."  Ain't broke bad may be just good enough.