The
joy of composing often dances in the way a sense of light guides the focal
point until awe half releases breath and holds, filling the frame so that the
centerpiece arranges like a hummingbird poised, counterbalanced by the
invisible scent of nectar. The
rule of thirds handily reassures the steady pressure needed to claim a capture
of beauty, and then the kept breath escapes. But the texture and grace has been brought closer by
presuming to enter the flow of light, to still the falling petals, to treasure
the residue of storm clouds. And
having entered this, the delicate exchange of finding the center of focus
flows, a half-step from the midpoint for the harmony with a slightly blurred
background, a bow to mystery, the unknown, longing, calling.
When
one holds peace, we compose: as a rider knows about how balance in the riding
trot cannot be fixed but continuously moves to complement a mythical
perfection, or how the poet circled the tower as a falcon or a moon marking the
magnetic field.
When
I entered the gravity of “What’s the Most Beautiful Thing About a Horse,” my
being suspended into the question.
It’s a field of joy, wonder, in the power, amid beauty. So when I assembled the array of images
and words, the forced separation of work and play evaporates like the
disappearing dew, the magic of mist; and we dance with the feel of this and
then this, and ah, hmm, and . . .
One gift comes in the distilled glance at contents in a flexible frame
so that tentative words offer inadequate names.
When
I look back at the composition, I look for my response to the invitation, and I
see or, better yet, feel the smile of a stranger-no-more (see ~2:04 in What’s the Most Beautiful
Thing About ).
On either flank of the horse float the two sides of the globe, making
words but much more. It’s the
weaving of peace, the soothing of mistrust, moving closer to power, the
dissolve of difference.
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