Wet glasses on a log
OK, dear blog readers, inspiration hath struck like lightning in the rain. I am tingling with the sense of new possibilities, new directions, new visions.
Would you like to tingle, too? For those who haven’t already–pick up a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s book BIG MAGIC. (Don’t react all ho-hum like I did and think, yeah, right, just another inspiring book that will rock your socks for five minutes before you shelve it and continue on to your usual predictable behavior and responses for the rest of your life.)
I am not going to provide a book review about this marvelous creation because that would be, well, expected. Instead I am going to tell you what is exciting me.
First, let’s set the stage. Here is something that happened last night, after a magic day of reading BIG MAGIC. Barry and I visited the Vertin Gallery in Calumet with friends Deb and Chuck (after a short hike at the Paavola Wetlands and before dinner at the Michigan House).
The Vertin Gallery sells all sorts of eclectic items like ancient strollers, modern art and everything imaginable. It’s a consignment shop where folks attempt to lure other folks into purchasing items, with sellers hoping an unknown visitor will fall head-over-heels in love with, say, rickety old theater seats. (These things do happen, reader.)
We strolled through the shop and I noted big books of artists like Gauguin, marveling that such artists existed. Thinking how little I know of art and artists. Thinking–wouldn’t it be nice to buy that clunky coffee-table book and simply leaf through it because, well, just because it’s new and different and unexpected and you might learn something?
But what do we often do when these thoughts visit us? Our minds come up with reasons why this simply won’t DO. My mind said: Oh, no, too expensive. (Even though the books were 1/2 price.) Oh, no, you don’t even LIKE art that much. (What do you mean?) Oh, no, I’m a minimalist, I hate to buy THINGS. (Boring, boring, boring, you’re so darn predictable!)
So we continued on to dinner, sans Gauguin.