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| Hot, hazy day with clouds. |
I've always loved looking up at the sky; not the moon, not the stars, but the clouds. It remains the essence of summer to me: gazing up at the fluffy, white clouds floating by on a warm day, with a slight breeze playing among the treetops, laying on a soft, rich field of grass under the protective canopy of a big, shade tree.
| Bright sky above, darkness below. |
When I'm in yoga class and the teacher asks us to meditate on some generic "happy" place (like a beach or a garden), I turn my head to look up at the tall windows that frame the tops of the trees outside and the blue sky behind them, because I'm already in one of my favorite happy places: a beautiful library. Or I think of the park right across the street, or maybe if I really want to stretch it, the park that I walk to sometimes that's several blocks away.
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| Sky framed by trees. |
Some big leap, I know. But it tells me that I don't have to look far or search hard for beauty, because it's always near me, and if it's not right under my feet like a patch of grass, then I can always look to the sky. It's funny that when I occasionally get pulled into a heated debate by someone who is disordered, they typically try to poke holes in that seemingly airtight defense called "perspective", something I've studied at length and in depth, and to them I always reply in the language of my constants: water is wet, and the sky is blue.
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| Above, reflected below. |
Except when it isn't, but then again, I also know about a thousand shades of gray, because I've studied that landscape a thousand times, too. It tends to be bring about an end rather quickly. Any questions? No? Color me not surprised, at all.
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| The end of day. |
