They say life is a highway. When I hear that I think of asphalt, and falling off my bike and grinding off my mozzarella skin in slo-mo. Picking bits of sand and gravel out of my major owy. Yes, life is a journey. Like a highway. Or better, like a dirt road with grass growing out of the middle section of the road, between the tire-worn ruts. What if we just floated over fields of wild flowers? If you fell out of the door, you would fall on wild flowers. Flower burn. Not so bad. Kind of pleasant really. You would smell all fragrant. And have new friends. Bees. Butterflies.
I painted this "Road Trip" because I find myself floating along when I am working on a book. I am in several states at once. Joyful, melancholic, stuporishous. Where does this flower-powered back road go? It may not matter. Do I know? Seldom. My handyman/philosopher friend, Nicholas Colitses (twitter.com/AssessThyself), often reminds me,
"The journey is the destination."
Nicholas also wrote the following:
God scatters our trembling hearts
On the darkened roadways
Of this life.
Of a time when the world
Was not broken