Restive

The revolution, it stirs ever so quietly within me.  Despite the uneasiness at my core I often don’t realize I’m rebelling as its happening. It’s not until I recount my visceral reaction that it dawns on me.  Phrases like “we’re not doing that” or “over my dead body” spew from my lips. As I consider how I’ll present my objections I’m gripped with fear that the value system my beliefs are pinned upon has been kidnapped without a demand for ransom, our culture and everything I stand for bound and gagged in the trunk of a getaway car speeding off unnoticed by those who should so fiercely protect this stolen treasure.

Is it an overreaction?  Sure, it is.  I ask for some unbiased opinions and it’s suggested I think positively; we don’t have any evidence yet to confirm my mounting suspicions.  I’m also advised to do what I do best:  Engage my adversaries in a shrewd line of questioning to prompt some reflection and to seek understanding.

 

At the end of the day, whatever the outcome, I know this is simply a sign I’ve grown. The fact that I have an opinion about how the situation was handled and feel passionately about being heard tells me so. On the brink of mutiny, that’s when I know I’ve yet again come into bounty.

The poet Mary Oliver passed away this week.  As social media presents to me the many paying homage, I recall her poetry, so lithe and sage; prolific work connecting humans and nature, beckoning us to answer the ceaseless knell to be ourselves.

I feel this uprising more than ever in my artistic life.  Every escape to my studio is another log thrown onto the fire fueling my creative soul. I don’t know if I’m destined to make a living with my art, but I do know for sure I’m meant to make a statement. It’s a calling impossible to ignore.  And I answer in earnest.

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”  -- Mary Oliver