Letter to My Son
Sunday, February 17
Good Morning Jack…
A soft snow fell today, like sprung feathers from a burst
pillow, covering with white the yellow flowered daffodils that dare push Spring
into the cold wind of early February.
Jake, the dog, wore his bright red sweater to dinner, the one with the
emblem of a bone stitched about his shoulders.
I’ve been taunting Mother Nature to provide us a layer of Winter and it
has now, finally, come to pass.
Overnight the frozen air fixes our frosting blanket into a snap,
crackling icy brittle. It’s guaranteed
to give Sunday morning church-goers pause.
I always wonder how you and the family are doing. You turn sixteen this year. That is so beyond the age I last knew
you. I doubt I would recognize you if
our paths were now to cross. I would more
likely know you from words you might write me on the page. You were already developing an enthusiasm for
expressing yourself in words at a very young age. The four of you kids all have lively minds,
yours probably the most serious. What
hope I have is meant for good fortune to be shared by you all. Yes, of course, I include your mother. She shamelessly spoils all of you, I’m
sure.
Lately, I’ve taken to drawing with ink again. It’s all very tight, jagged and busy. I haven’t a clue if there’s any meaning to be
found here. I really prefer to work
empty headed. Rarely have I carried
through to completion any image of a preconceived notion. The line starts on the paper with one thing
in mind only to veer into something else at the first suggestion of another
tangent. There’s no point in fighting
it. These persistent, insatiable really,
quirks provide us our identity. They put
our fingerprints all over the page. Take
this method from me and I fall out of love.
For me art is the expression of our own particular version of humanity.
You don’t arrive at sixteen without experiencing the life
fulfilling emotion that is love. Can we
agree that it is a powerful mystery and, for simple human beings such as
ourselves, it should always remain so.
That’s not really a question. I
don’t care to know the chemical structure of its potion. It wouldn’t matter to me. Is there an artist afraid of love? Yes.
It does tend to tip the apple cart.
We’re sometimes left stranded on deserted shores. But we return mesmerized by its flame. You just don’t fight what is responsible for
human life. If turned away by a door
slammed shut we soon find the courage to search elsewhere. This is as it should be. There’s probably a Biblical verse somewhere
that says that very thing, only expressed in the manner of King James.
Imagine a portrait of the one you love done only in the most
brilliant of primary colors – true blue, spring green, scarlet red and sunburst
yellow. It goes without saying midnight black and snow white are also
invited. Give the assignment to fifty
artists. The result would surprise you
with the ingenious breadth of the human imagination. This is the core of what people are about
when we feel unconstrained by circumstance of fear and, instead, filled with
energy for exploration when being guided by the most positive of light. This sense of overwhelming empowerment works
equally well with mechanics, engineers and chefs only they use tools familiar
to their trade – like wrenches, calculators and ladles.
Next time let’s think about something entirely different in
approach. Maybe we’ll consider the role
of diplomacy in a world no longer provided the buffers of space and time. We might decide to crack the lid and peer
into speculation on how the human mind formulates existence. That sounds stimulating but also very
ambitious. Maybe we’ll settle for
talking about appreciating the taste of fruit.
Love,
Dad