Drawing at the Table

The phrase, like a scent, holds many memories. Like parts of a collage they come tumbling together, overlapping and crisscrossing into one large, beautiful piece of art. Drawing at the Table means grey-blue light from winter mornings pouring through the large, kitchen window. It means perforated stacks of printer paper with holed edges. It means Cole was there with me, back before our minds and lives complicated things for us. We drew together there.

The phrase came wandering into my meditation session this morning. I guess it had gotten lost and wanted to be found, at least for a moment. So many things want to be found, at least for a moment.

Like the little house in the snow I drew with its chimney puffing away to send leftover warmth out into a snowy world. It was a proud, three-dimensional house, even if it was modest. I think there was a poem to go with it. That would have been like me anyway.

And like the seagulls, I think, that he drew. A little trick was using M's for the faraway ones. They, too, wanted to be found today. M's or not, he drew them carefully, methodically. That was like him anyway.

Of course, at night fires are put out and birds fly home to their nests. Still, it was nice to find them here this morning, if only for a moment.

Thoughts. About Stuff. On purpose.

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