The clarity of being unsharp.
The daffodils are out, cherry blossom explode the trees like pink and white popcorn, and the tulips (my favourite flower) are impatient to show off.
–ooOoo–
This photo is unsharp.
In fact I took it through the plastic wrapper of my coffee filter papers. Because, you know…art.
I have noticed a certain unsharpness in myself lately.
I think it is a combo of TMB (too many birthdays) and my meditation practice.
The feeling from inside is that I am not as smart as I used to be (and, mind you, that bar was not set particularly high to begin with!). I constantly grasp for any semblance of conversational vernacular1.
I can’t figure things out like I used to.
Names and faces hide from each other with frustrating regularity.
Edges are smeared. Spelling is a lottery.
My memory is a fizz of forgotten details and memories.
Im not talking about serious cognitive decline, Im not talking cataracts. Im just not as sharp as I used to be. Such is life.
This unsharpness is interesting. Perhaps, just as the photo above engages and conveys more aesthetic information than a clear, sharp, focused shot would, my own unsharpness is accompanied by its own conveyance.
A releasing, a comfortable spacious openness.
There is less black and white thinking, there is less ruminating. Future and past fold in on themselves taking any tension out of memories and plans. Boarders blur and colours haze. Silence and stillness round out the world with a clear, meaningful unsharpness.
If I just sit amongst it, if I just soak in it, this unsharpness has a fresh, biting polish that makes it better, not lesser, than before.
Being smart is overrated.
The daffodils are out. Do you see them clearly?
- Interestingly, I seem to be able to get my thoughts down in written form OK. Writing, accesses some other pathway. That, and I get to re-write and delete and edit and contemplate the draft. Its almost as if my muse or daimon (that numinous force of creative inspiration) spills the words out through me. ↩︎
