Sunday, December 8, 2019

Comments by WeaverGrace

Showing 3 of 3 comments.

  • I gasped as I read, “There must be an inner light within me that recognizes beauty, as though the photographs are already inside of me, just waiting to be freed.” Although I experienced something similar when I drew what I saw on paper, and now as I put into words the stories that come to mind, I didn’t associate either drawing or writing with a “light within me that recognizes beauty”. How enlighteningly beautiful!

    It makes sense to me now that the photographs that we “take” become part of us. This supports my concern about actors who play the parts of horrid characters: what does that do to them?

    I laughed when I read your words, “creatively rest”. I just wrote about that in another discussion at this website. You can find my comment by clicking on my name.

    I can literally see why you enjoy photography so much as I look at the pictures you posted here. Beautiful. Thanks for sharing them, and for sharing your experience of “taking” them. I wonder what the story is behind the stacked stones.

  • Thank you Suzanne for your immediate response to my comment. I am not aware of meeting you before today. I found your comments touching, here and on other posts, and searched for more writings by you. I look forward to when I have enough bandwidth to download your videos: hopefully within a couple weeks. I like your writing “voice”.

    I see that you are on Facebook and Pinterest, but I don’t use those sites. You might have seen me on Twitter at @gb13114 or my blog http://WeaverGrace.com, or other WordPress blogs, or Google+ as WeaverGrace aka Grace Buchanan.

    You are NOT “a stubborn sadsack”! Your fog metaphor proves that you know that the ocean is out there, despite what your 5 senses tell you. I can’t give you better proof than that. Likewise, while frustration can become delight, frustration can also follow delight. I like to think of frustration as being an indicator of what I want. It is unpleasant, so it also prods me in the direction that I want to go. In other words, if I don’t like the fog, it might be because I want to see the ocean. Therefor, I must face in the direction of where I understand the ocean to be, so when the fog lifts, I will see it. Meanwhile, the fact that I can see “a few feet of lapping waves” indicates that I’m looking in the right direction. I can maximize on that small bit of proof, and devote all of my senses to perceiving it as I wait for the fog to roll out.

    It’s like when I only have enough energy to visualize while I lie in bed, flat on my back, too weak to sit up at all (see my blog post http://weavergrace.com/2014/04/19/strike-forward-let-go/). I conjure up memories of lying on my back on an ocean. I add memories of deep black night skies full of stars. I feel my body bouncing on the light waves, and feel my buoyancy change as I breathe. Sometimes my commitment to this visualization makes the time pass pleasantly. That’s a lot better than feeling frustrated from being confined to bed. Sometimes my body suddenly levitates of its own accord, and I find myself delighted to be engaging in a different valuable activity.

    I’m on my way now to https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/saving-normal/201303/the-dangers-premature-diagnosis where I want to comment on your quote.

    Best wishes to you!

  • The drama of your fog analogy whacked me. I read it repeatedly before I continued through your article. How often I have turned my back on an overwhelming experience, and faced cold fog. I’ve wrapped myself in what comfort was at my fingertips, and trusted that something was ahead of men that I couldn’t see, taste, smell, hear, or feel.

    You continued by writing that the fog cleared, and you saw brilliant color. The color was always there, you just couldn’t see it. I know what that’s like: the frustration that becomes delight; the dullness that becomes enthusiasm.

    I like the fog analogy because it points out the powerlessness of sitting on that dock. You couldn’t sweep the fog away. You couldn’t make your senses perceive what you trusted was out there. You waited for the fog to clear, and it did so all by itself, in its own time. You did what you could: you kept your eyes open.

    I hope that you see that you kept your eyes open as you watched Jake live his life, as blinded by the fog as you were at times.