a slow accumulation of things

and in the end, is that not all that life — and love, and art — is? a slow accumulation of things: moments, experiences, memories, visions, truths and beauties worth holding to the sun and saying here. look. this happened to me. this was real. this was true. this was worth writing home about. this was worth making art about, telling my friends about, holding and keeping safe in my heart chamber. the years pass and we accumulate time in our bodies. the days pass and we accumulate moments. the seasons pass and we accumulate dreams, emotions, traumas, regrets.

the most crucial question is — what are we choosing to accumulate? what is the collection? what — and why — do we collect? what material and immaterial things am I collecting, and counting?

can I wake up each morning and count my blessings, sing praises to my gifts, record a day’s worth of magic, and seeing? for me, art is nothing more than the deliberate accumulation of beauty, and truth — transformed into a way of seeing and being in the world. and to do the accumulating, I must be close to my center. I must be the container that can hold.