A friend of mine is an artist.
Her medium is words. She puts them on the page in a way that’s honest and true, that speaks to the unsparing pain and beauty of the human experience. When I visited her home on a quiet southern street, she told me that the process of writing was like stepping out of the world to write a love note to it.
But her other medium is time. She does not rush through it. Nor does she let it pass her by.
She drives her old Jeep, makes lunch, gives her children baths, takes notes in her notebook at an even, often gentle cadence that I can best describe as graceful. Or full of grace.
Her life, like many, is brimming, demanding, at times maddening. But I have never seen her bend to the rushing, violent pace that is the convention. She seems to hold time the way she would hold a child nursing, like it is sacred and worthy of compassion.
I suspect she knows we are mortal. How else could you be so reverent with time?
From her, I understood that we can be artists with the moments we are given. And that we can live our life in such a way that each day is a love note to time.