My Life As a Tapestry and Other Almost Pleasing Platitudes
(“Tapestry”, 2025, original encaustic)
I like the stories I tell myself about myself.
As cliche’ as it sounds,
They are the story of my life,
But yet, not the actual life.
They are instead the mythology of a life
Of actual moments
Woven from birth by family, friends, and self.
Firstly as a warm, soft, comforting blanket
Then as a home secure and sound
Finally as a world vibrant and vast
Giving us everything we need,
A psycho-spiritual whole to contain
And explain it all.
At some point though we reach the limit
Of our story, our hopes and fears,
As vast as they may eventually grow to be,
And the crack in our cosmic egg
Reveals something completely different
Beyond us, beyond our world and story.
Of course we just add this to our story
But it will never really be the same.
Once the truth is seen
The lie can never fully be unseen.
But lie is a harsh term
For the comforting half truths a child needs
As it prepares to know Life
Outside a blanket, or home, or even world,
A life that weaves and leaves stories in its wake,
Of Self as friend, lover and mate
Or trickster, seducer, adversary and foe,
But as the creator
Always something more.
(12/4/25)
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