Up the street, another neighbor maintains a sign that says "The Word of the Week." Evidently, this week's word is "Cumber." Is that even a word? Then there is the Poetry Shrine up the hill from here where free poems are regularly set out for the passing stranger. It looks like a cupboard-turned-puppet-stage with paintings of harlequins on the doors, but inside its shadowy interior is the poem of the month. I always look forward to reading the latest offering. Maybe someday I'll meet the neighbor who puts the poems out...
The most recent poem was this one, and the anonymous poetry donor must have really loved it because she/he took pains to color copy it with a beautiful picture of a tree in fog at the top:
Where we live
Is no place to lose your wings.
So love, love
All of these gestures, though they will probably never be recognized as great art, create a significant part of what makes my life worth living. They remind me how wonderful it is to be alive, to be human. They are traces of joy, the scat of a passionate being, seeds flung recklessly into the wind.
I want to be this kind of artist.