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.