soul, spring open!

i am a painter, and a writer.

would i paint with such passion, if i did not know the limitations of words?

would i write with such awe, if i did not understand how hard it is to capture a word with a brush stroke?

the two, i believe, go hand in hand. like a fragile old man and his wrinkled wife doing a dance on egg-shells, they carefully waltz together, bringing beauty to canvas and paper.

i often wonder: if i grew popular enough at either, would i abandon the other?


i find release in both. when i paint, something deep inside flings wide open and breathes. my mind flies with the brush flinging colour singing with the rich oils, the texture of the molding paste, the simplicity of creating a beautiful picture.

when i write something deep inside me uncoils and finds its legs, learns to walk or even run.

some days, i feel like a failure at both. on those days, i want to cry, because it’s only by painting well or writing strongly that i feel alive. but then i stop and think:

art cannot be perfected. that’s the very beauty of it. and that’s why, when i pick up my paintbrush or pen, my soul springs wide open like a window on a spring morning.

because that’s when i’m free.


when do i stop caring?

mom on a ‘fuzzy’ daythe grass groans. it’s hurting. my toes continue to slap slap its tender skin, unaware. uncaring. because my heart is bursting.

my last blog wondered: why don’t i care MORE?

yet paradoxically, when do i stop? when do i just turn a blind eye? which things matter, and which don’t?

grass… it’s easy to take grass for granted. it’s unable to speak, so i choose to ignore it. same with animals; unless i see them visibly hurting, i assume they’re okay.

perhaps for me it takes vocal communication uttered into my sphere of existence to wake up and say, hello!

but even then, my analytical self wonders, is that truly caring? or simply guilting? (a self-imposed word for doing things out of guilt)

is guilting okay, if the results cure the problem?

is choosing not to care okay, if someone else DOES?

if i choose to slap across the grass in bare feet, refusing to hear its silent screams, but someone else takes the time to water, fertilize and seed it, am i off the hook?

sometimes i feel like my heart is going to explode. sometimes i look at my mother on her fuzzy days and i think, i don’t have room for any other people right now. every bit of my emotions is going towards her. every ounce of strength, compassion, every last tear and prayer is covering my mother, especially on those fuzzy days.

is this wrong? please… care enough to answer!

issues that matter

why do i care what i wear, what i eat, what i say, what i delete? who am i to care?

why don’t i care more about YOU, about global warming, about issues that matter


splatter like rain drops on an ocean — what’s the difference? i want to make a difference, that’s what matters, that’s my point in this

aching joint we call planet i need to

plan it, this course of action to get me

out of myself and into the OTHER.