When Only Art Makes Sense

There are seasons in my life where art is the only thing that makes sense.

I can’t use words.

I can’t use words.

“Just exist in the moment.”

I lie on the floor and allow the bass beat to become one with my heart beat.

It makes sense.

I saw a sunset yesterday in a city that I love.

I almost cried.

The photo I took—a prayer.

It makes sense.

In my room—

“Reach out to me; make my heart brand new. Every beat will be for You. For You.”

Exhaling slowly, arms extending, motions fluid and raw,

Movements to the words in my soul.

It makes sense. 

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Understand that if I stare at this single grass blade for minutes it is only because

I am in awe that it is there in the first place.

Understand that it is when I am quiet and reserved that I am in a beautifully deep place of worship.

Understand that these dark spaces are places where I am seeing the Light shining most vividly in the big picture of all.

Please.

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Can you hear me in my silence?

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“And I know You know You touched my life when You touched my heavy heart and made it light.”

May my life be a series of dances for You. Embracing Your freedom, living in that gift.

I dance for You. Oh, my soul.

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I sat in that corner yesterday, looking over the place where my soul sees most clearly. I watched her listen, and it was beautiful. My presence was a prayer.

And it made sense.

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You ask me how I am, what I’m doing, what I’ve learned, what I think about this, question question question and I can’t answer in the words you expect. Words just don’t make sense right now.

But I could give you a fragmented poem, or a picture, or my quiet presence, or a dance, or a song.

Would you understand that I'm trying to communicate? 

I'm trying,

I promise.

--I'm trying.

There are seasons in my life when art is the only thing that makes sense.

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Can you hear me in my silence?

—I’m here.