I wanted to be an artist.
Artists make entirely new things.
Things people enjoy for the things themselves.
Things that are intended to be used, but not used up.
Too many parts of life – things, moments, relationships – get used up.
I drew, colored and painted every spare moment, but art would not come.
There I am, sitting in a summer day camp class after fourth grade.
A woman is showing us how to make art out of driftwood.
Where we lived, driftwood was everywhere.
This was art, but not entirely new.
In fact, it was very, very old.
I still remember the smell and feel of it.
Driftwood taken from a timeless beach on the edge of forever.
You mix in other things pass by without noticing, and make beauty.
Not the beauty of perfection, but the glorious beauty of the commonplace.
There is a joy in simply noticing and taking in our surroundings.
Surroundings that simultaneously take us in, as well.
To both make, and be made, in the same moment.
To know that we are where life placed us.
Both artist and work of art.
Living tree and driftwood.
You want to be an artist.
You are.
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