Autumn afternoons make me wish I were an artist… the slanted light, fire-bright leaves against an impossibly blue sky, the weather getting brisk while the life within it slows down… I feel like there’s a lot to capture.
Artists can put less obvious things into their work, too. So I could write you a sonnet about a walk in the woods on a clear fall day, but leave you feeling the softness of the blanket I curl up in afterwards, the warmth of the mug in my hands, a curl of sweet smelling smoke from the contents within. I could paint you a picture of a fire in the hearth and a single window looking out on vibrant trees and somehow also make you hear the laughter of your loved ones as they gather in the shorter, cooler days, chasing away the dark and cold with stories and delicious food and by simply being within arm’s reach. I could oh-so-effortlessly slide everything I think and feel into every stroke of the brush or scratch of the pen and smile, because I know you’ve felt and thought the very same things.
If I were an artist.
Instead, I’ll shiver a few more moments in the rapidly cooling air of a perfect, golden day, thinking of the paintings, poems, and symphonies I wish I could make to share this moment with you across the intervening miles. I’ll laugh at the clumsy, mundane, inadequate words you’ll get instead--if I even remember to mention it to you.
Because I’m not an artist, and you are far, far away.