A Time of Renewal

Not long ago we celebrated Easter.  A time of renewal and rebirth.  It is spring time here and all over town the cherry trees both white and pink are in bloom and my forsythia is all yellow and most every plant alive is coming out of the ground.  The city is slowly greening after a dry winter and a drought.  But the perennials are not shy as their sturdy stems peek from my flowers beds. The lack of rain does not seem to disturb them.

I am wondering what I want to renew or see reborn in my life.  I am aware of such transformation having happened many times as I went along my days.  I still remember when my cousin and I, both of us artists, decided to organize an art exhibit outside of Haiti.  It was novel for us as we only used to show in local galleries. But we were young, had plenty of dreams and were quite affected from the terrible and oppressive dictatorship of Duvalier.

We contacted a few friends, moved a few mountains to get out of the country and shipped all of our art work to the Carib Hilton Gallery in San Juan Puerto Rico.  Neither one of us spoke Spanish then but were warmly welcomed by the director and all the staff.  We had to find an apartment, find our way through the city and most of all, we had to sell some of our art to survive.  I was eighteen and loved the freedom, the absence of horrible killings, of whispering in the dark or looking over my back.  I did not miss the blackouts, the heavy atmosphere that existed before under such a dictator.  After a few days, I thought I had reached paradise.

With our new friends, we used to go to the beach on weekends.  We carried lemons and knives and swam to the nearby island that was just a rocky kind of place in the middle of the ocean.  There, we collected quite a few sea urchins and cracked them open under the direction of our french friend and cut our lemons to pour over them.  They were as good as oysters and we turned very brown and hot under the sun until it was time to swim again to return to the mainland.  Our life had become so different, so carefree that I realize how great we felt and that our life in Haiti, despite family and friends, was not the way to be.  I made up my mind then to return to Puerto Rico and that was the beginning of my life abroad.

It was a real rebirth.  I had many challenges to face, but I had new horizons and found many friends to share the time I created for myself. It was the beginning of a new life and some years I visited Haiti for a few days or a few weeks at a time to see my family and  friends.

Now living in the mountains, I want still to create jewelry plus go back to drawing with pen and ink.  I miss the dark flow of the pen as it glides over the white paper and create shades and forms as if some magic was happening at the end of my hand.  I like the simplicity, the unforgiving honesty but streamlined approach of just using a pen loaded with ink and my paper that I can also carry anywhere.  My studio can stay at home and yet I can be creative with such uncomplicated elements wherever I am.

I became aware of this need by looking through my things and finding a little collection of simple pen and inks that I did some years ago.  I completed some of them and they are ready to frame.

Life provides us sometimes with a reminder.  I find that it was so for me who found the reason for my renewal and the rebirth of one of the many mediums I love.

What about you?  Do you want to find a whole new but old love you want to bring back to your life or find a whole new one? What would make you happy and feel reborn?  Life gives us many opportunities to do so but first of all, ask yourself many questions and the answers will be all yours to ponder.  I will wait to hear from you.

Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre

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Carnival in my Memories

Many countries celebrated carnival not long ago.  I am so used to spelling it Carnaval (the French way) that I have a hard time accepting the English form of a word that evokes so many memories and many of them are quite mixed.

In Haiti, it used to be a yearly huge thing.  In my family we planned our costumes and most of the time I ended up as a pirate, maybe because unconsciously I relived the life of this old pirate under the orders of Napoleon who traveled to Haiti, fell in love with one of the natives and started the beginning of our family.  I remember  drawing carefully with a black pencil a line of some imagined elegant mustache on my upper lip and draping a sash around my waist while ample sleeves of white cotton fell on my arms. I was transformed into a fierce buccaneer with knives and sword on my waist.  I was menacing, at least in looks.  I used to dress my friends and dribble gold specks on their hair while I transformed my sister into  a fawn ready to roam the slopes of our nearby mountain.  And we danced like crazy.  All hot nights at Choucoune, the night club en vogue at the time.  I loved it.  I even remember one night of Carnival when we danced all night, ending the ball at the beach, sipping on coffee and worrying my parents to death (I realize, now that I am a long time parent and grandparent.)

In the afternoon we used to gather on top of a friend's house on the Champ de Mars, the big park close to the National Palace and watch as each group of dancers paraded around a float where the queen and king would salute from their height while around them people would dance ardently, wildly gyrating while the music blared leaving me nearly deaf.  Group after group competed to be the craziest dancers in the crowd, loud and probably somewhat drunk and I wished then to be back in the quiet of my home with my books or brushes in my studio. Carnival was becoming too crazy. Too loud or too wild.

While living in Peru, my husband had business to do in Rio and it was Carnival time. Was it a coincidence?  I prepared what I thought was a very fancy outfit with a long skirt, slit on the side, a bra-like top, all in satin hot pink with jewelry and hairdo to match.  We watched the schools of Samba with dazzled eyes realizing that what I was used to in Haiti was a pale version of Carnival.  It was an incredible, awe inspiring spectacle that we waited for as each school of Samba announced itself with its own music, its own amazing costumes and singing with percussion and passion.  A sound we could hear coming around the corner and announcing a total feast for the eyes.  The elaborate, unimaginable, magnificent costumes, the bodies and legs undulating to the sound of the drums had me in a trance myself.  It lasted all night and I stayed awake to watch it all, completely mesmerized and astonished.

But the ball the night after was something else.  I got to wear my costume and packed into a car with some American couples from my husband's company and we all went anticipating an evening of dancing like in any well-behaved night club.  We were wrong.  Poised on a balcony we watched the immense ballroom as it filled up and by ten o'clock it was packed with the most extravagant unimaginable costumes I had ever seen.  It was obvious that it took them a year to prepare such elaborate and often diminutive costumes and headdresses versus mine that took me only a day to create, and looked like a nothing and forgettable pale dress.  Around us were a group of women clad in so little as to derange the minds of the men that accompanied us. With wild eyes they were looking at them and obviously were drooling, senses ablaze.

At the table next to us was a beautiful woman with some tiny little red lights magically lit on her naked nipples, a small beaded V covering her sex, and otherwise naked with a huge green feathered boa around her neck; she got close to total drunkenness as were most people and of course, could she dance!  If you want to call the amazing motion of her waist and rump a dance.  Her laughter was also an irresistible draw.  Pretty soon, my husband was dancing with her and so were the pale, mild men who were at our table leaving us women wide-eyed looking at each other with astonishment and disbelief.  It ended up with the green boa woman spread on the table, legs open, while some of her companions held her with delight. When they popped a camera to remember the sight, I nearly jumped in fright for her.  But she only laughed!  It lasted all night.  Once you got in the ballroom, you could not get out.  Somehow at dawn, we managed to leave and collapse in the car, exhausted with so much stimulation while my husband was green with little feathers that littered the car and later our hotel room.  I will never forget!

My memories of carnival were mixed.  Some enchanting and some obviously not so. A friend of mine sent me a video of the carnival in Venice and I loved the amazing old world, imaginative masks and costumes and it made me dream.  I keep seeing myself drawing the elaborate frilled tulle, gorgeous rich embroidery and lace framing the many white masks with pearls and crystals glittering from marvelous headgear by the Adriatic sea.  In a way, we espouse a new identity while we hide carefully under the masks and veils and it gives us the liberty to act so very differently than we would in real life.  A chance to borrow the image of a new self and be the person we would never dare or imagine to be in normal life.

Carnival, this very old feat, can be inspiring and give us a chance to be a confident double.  But for me, it is now safely in my memories where I can just recall it while quiet and purposeful in the mountains of Colorado.

Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre

Living With a Cat

At night, on velvety paws he sneaks up on me.  He startles me awake with whiskers close to my eyes and the soft sound of purring in my ears.  I forget my dreams as I curl around on one side and the cat nestles up next to my skin.  He lays there patiently unless my electric blanket gets too hot for him-- furry being that he is.  He lets me sleep in peace, sometimes settling between my feet.  Not the most comfortable position for me.

But as I wake up, I find  the fabric little mouse that we fill with catnip in the hallway or my yarn or even my new knitting that I forgot to secure in a bag --- he loves yarn.  It is a testimony to his hours of play during the night.  But now he runs down the stairs, sits by his bowl and waits.  I am supposed to feed him but I open the fridge, get the almond milk, get my home made granola, my fruits to greet another day.  Eventually he gets fed; he runs to the spider plant to munch on it, his dessert I guess; then settles by the window to look out and eye the landscape over Colorado.

He is my winter Tabby cat.  He spends time with us until we get too busy traveling and doing Art Shows to really care for him.  A great arrangement that I have with my daughter.  I love to touch his fat belly, the markings on his coat mesmerize me as does his sleekness and his talent for jumping high that he manages to show always.  Sometimes he climbs across the most crowded places but nothing falls, adept as he is to travel carefully between object not disturbing any.

All the cats that I have had in the past have been healers.  They seem to draw the sickness out of your body by sitting legs stretched on your chest and eyes closed purring until you are lolled by the heavenly sounds that I wish I could carry with me always. They purr their love and their enjoyment.

He is hugely attracted to the outside but hardly ever wants to go out  by himself.  The little rabbits, birds and squirrels catch his eyes and sitting on top of my credenza by the window, he clicks his tongue, moves his tail, all hunter in action with the body flat on the glass ready to jump, but I laugh knowing his stance is nothing but a motion and he is safe in my home.

Sometimes I peer over his looks disbelieving that a foreign creature like him has chosen us, the family of man and dare to be our friend.  He has that look of the wild, and I know that left on his own he will return to the long ancestral habits that his specie has nurtured before it got domesticated.  His tame looks do not fool me.

But he does follow me like a dog would do.  When I go to my studio, he runs after me down the stairs and looks for his favorite chair just close to mine and sits.  After grooming himself thoroughly he closes his eyes but still stays aware as his ears move in the direction of any sound.  I am sure he hears so much more than I ever will.  That it why he is a cat and makes the nights his time to roam.

We put up with his cat litter that I clean every morning, his crying in the middle of the night sometimes, his walks between our legs and once in a while, the gentle bites he takes on my husband's ankles as he comes down the stairs.  He knows that the man in the house is the one who gives the treats.  The cat sits on him by the TV while I beg for him to join me.  Males win sometimes!

Now he lays down at my feet, belly up soft and beige as tabby cats like to show and he dreams of catnip and of our hands gently caressing his fur.  He is all within himself but I know that he is also all vigilant.

                                                                                         Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre

 The Cat

All sinuous and curves of fur

he stretches and yawns, his markings

a pattern of a thousand lines.

Now stretched  by my chair he lays

mysterious companion

who walks by my feet

and looks with eyes

of eternity.

I stare at the yellow-green of pupils open on my life

long looks reminiscent of time immemorial

when he roamed the earth, wild and proud

as a creature of lonely nights and vivid days.

I have dreamed of long journeys when we travel

in lands lush and humid, mossy and green  

a solace for his paws and for my feet.

I sleep, legs warmed by his body

and I escape in immense voyages

of the soul where he leads the way

as cats can only do.

Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre 
All photos copyright 2012 BD Kaplan Photography

The Love of People

The end of the year was a mixed event. I got sick with a bronchitis and was alone in my house because my husband had gone to St Louis.  He planned to bring back his mom's car that she had decided to give me.  At her age she thought it was best to stop driving.  I guess she loves me!  I felt weak and had an exhausting cough that kept me many days in bed not doing much but reading all the books I could find at hand.  It was not easy.

My daughter's best friends came and shoveled the snow out of my driveway and I stayed indoors as much as I could.  Miso the cat was my companion.  He was my daughter's tabby, a huge cat who had come "south for the winter" as her friend said.   I do live south of her, although in the same town, and his voyage to my house lasted less than 20 minutes! This is his second visit at this time of the year since I stay home then and do not travel.  He gets to remember his favorite spots in the house and knows that I am his winter companion.

This gave me time to think.  I reviewed the year and found so much good in the everyday living and all the people I got to see and correspond with.  This year brought old friends back to visit me and at many art shows I got to hug many that I had not seen for a whole year.

I also got to think of all the things that happened to me and to them this year.  The people were certainly the most fulfilling aspect of every day. I realized that looking at a person in the eye to follow the tracing of their words, plus the words they might not dare say but that reveal their absolute consciousness is a treat. I was able to understand them with an empathy of the heart.  It was the best of the year.  Not traveling, even though going elsewhere is exciting and enriching.  Not reading some of my best books although I love reading; it was simply sharing a great moment with soul friends, people who listened and talked straight from their gut and heart.

This particular pleasure is like eating great pastry or like going inside of me to search for the traits I most love; or spending time alone investigating the many quirks in my head when dreams linger by and echo in my soul.

People are it.  Fascinating, interesting, crazy at times, sad, fulfilled, passionate, inquisitive, quirky, present and so terribly satisfying.  I line them up in my head and I feel blessed with so many who share so many characteristics and offer so many disparities, enough to satisfy me for a lifetime.  So this year of 2012, I dedicate to all my friends and my family that brings me the joy of following their life, of sharing their sorrow, and of laughing with them when their excitement is high.

I thank all of those who wrote to me, who talked to me, whom I dreamed of, whom I remembered, whom I rediscovered as well as the ones whom I missed and never got to see.  I want to celebrate us, the people who roam this earth and make my life worthwhile and prodigiously happy.

I used to think that bread was a huge and very simple pleasure. So satisfying.  A nice chunk torn from a baguette and so good to the tongue.  I think that the huge flow of humans that populate my life and let me enter their lives is the greatest satisfaction and the most enthralling and interesting aspect of living.

Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre

The Transition

There are fallen Aspen leaves in my driveway and over the lawn, in the garden and all over the streets in town.  Trees seem on fire with yellows, rust and red gloriously back-lit by the sun.  I drive on some streets that seem like tunnels of radiant colors and I sing to myself a few internal songs.  It is Fall in Colorado and the air is cool and fresh while nights are cold.

                                                                         
My husband and I went on Old Stage Coach road, up in the mountains, west of the city.  It is as the name says, a very old, unpaved and very narrow way with tunnels, blind curves and nothing, not even occasional guard rails to keep you from tumbling in the void that is often on both sides.  But the views ... the views make all the effort of taking that drive worth it.  Aspens line the many mountain sides and present a huge, astonishing warm palette of immense beauty.

                                                                         
It is this time of the year again, when we have to let go of the exuberance of summer and contemplate the changes that come with Fall.  It is a precursor to Winter and as such it is the exciting in-between time of the year that comes with a magnificent splash of colors and lets us know that it is time to settle down within and think and reevaluate the year.  Nature presents us with the transition, the entrance to this state of awareness and whether we sense it or not, life is coming with its packet of changes.

For me, transitions are the beginning of retreating into myself and finding simple joys that I had forgotten in the rush, work and pressure of summer.  Like waking up before my husband at dawn and walking quietly to the living room where with open windows I can see the sunrise and greet the day; a form of silent meditation about what might happen and also a form of salutation to the budding sun.

I can knit with the fabulous selection of yarns that I have collected through the years and see patterns of color develop while my thoughts are silent and the day unfolds.  I can write in my gratitude journal and mention things that are so basic and real to me.  I am grateful for taking a breath at a time and being alive.  I can send love to my family and friends and imagine a security circle around each one of them.  I can dream of the next piece of jewelry I will create and imagine the curves and the stones plus the shades offered to me in my studio.  Most of all, my priorities become more obvious as I let go of the non essential and embrace the most important.  I also like the joys of reading a real paper book that I can hold in my hand and let the the words evolve into a story with a character leading a life so unlike mine.  It is great to dream a bit!

It is my time to reevaluate. Life has so much to spread in front of me but choosing one thing is of utmost importance.  It is good to have a single main goal and go in its direction. 

I can think about all the persons that I have met and loved and that have gone out of my life for many reasons, especially the ones that I will never see again because they have died.  I can think of the finality of death and the strangeness of life.  The way we come on the planet, learn and live each day with awareness or not and create a trail of questions that life answers if we are lucky.  We can also add our name to the long list of beings that have come before and left a legacy to admire and try to emulate.

My loved ones march in front of me in my mind's road.  I love to follow this stretch of my days and look at the beings alive before me that stand in their own glory and grace and by so doing are so deserving of my attention and love. I can put aside the people which are indifferent to my life and do my best to enhance the life of all the other ones that walk with me and present challenges and growth to my days, or let me embrace the example that they present.

All of this comes with this slow approach of Winter that serves to focus us on what we had tuned into in the Fall.  In a way, regroup our year and set the tone for what in the next year will happen, surprise us, challenge us -- or simply, delight us.

Life is such a journey and it helps to discover more of ourselves with each passing season as we meet the day and continue our life fully aware and conscious.  I believe that humans were not meant to live with passivity but make happen what is close to our hearts, and Fall is the time to get in touch with our wants and what brings a smile to our face.

Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre

Living in Different Places

"You have to be invited to a baptism or go to a funeral to really feel you belong."
Words of my first husband when we lived in countries other than ours.  And of course, he was right. Living in a foreign country is getting to know different cultures, different food and maybe different languages and clothing but also the same people with the same emotions as ours.  Once we get passed our veneers and the outer look of a new place, we are met with the same humans: our great family of Earthlings.

Going to live in Mexico City for the first time I was dazzled by the culture. The beauty of multiple handmade things that sold in stores of "Artesanias" and the many villages with an astounding array and specialty of food, great dances, special hand-embroidered dresses and twists of the language caught me totally wide-eyed and receptive to it all.  I loved the songs, the romance of the mariachis at midnight on plaza Garibaldi, the markets, the flower vendors everywhere even at night and the restaurants filled with huge tables where three generations of people got together united by the need to visit and eat together as a family.  A real treat that made me remember with nostalgia my own family, hours and hours away in my Caribbean island.  I also loved the fields at the foot of the volcano where we picnicked with flowers all around us while the smoke in our our grill smelled of fresh tortillas and new found food.

I was in awe at all of what the country offered that seemed so different, and delighted me so much. The play of vibrant colors, the accents, the play of words used everyday and the music had me marveling each morning.  As I got to know the friendly people, I felt a great empathy, as they corrected my budding Spanish and laughed at my mistakes as I translated too literally from the French,  I carried a dictionary everywhere.  But more importantly, later, I felt like I belonged when we were invited to share family dinners or asked to weddings and when friends took me to their favorite markets and later taught me how to cook their specialty food.

Sometimes my husband would drive us to some villages around the country whose specialty was one item only; like the one that produced so many guitars and where so many open little factories lined the main street.  I delighted in the lavish sensual curves of the wood, the shine induced by the rubbing of assiduous hands and when I heard people sing and play the instruments, it was as if their souls opened up to cry their love or sorrow. It brought me close to the silent pain in my heart that life sometimes creates and about the nostalgia that resonated within me through the cords of their guitars. I was entranced.

Living in Peru was an exercise in endurance because of the frequent earthquakes and the fluctuation of food and restrictions of the use of our cars. It was the time of the generals and things weren't easy. A recent agrarian reform made all food scarce and our German pilot friends brought us steaks from outside the country. But there was the discovery of strong woman: worldly and open-hearted that I learned to love and the resurgence of my own voice as a person and an artist. My children were bigger and I could lead a group of creative people with their art, show it and sell it.

I thrived, I felt like I was back to my roots. I learned to make jewelry with Mary Traver in the Miraflores center. I learned to conquer metal and silver and also let it speak its voice and met many life time friends friends like Therese or Guillermina dear to me forever.  Between carrying the duty of a welcoming hostess present at parties and fiestas that we gave, I learned to embrace the family of people that I met and that nurtured my soul.  Making an international phone call was a true adventure.  You screamed, they did not hear you, they screamed and you still did not understand.  My ex husband used to say " If I scream some more I will not need a phone!"

After a particular strong earthquake in the middle of the night, my mother who was visiting helped me carry the children fast asleep as usual to the middle of our garden while the maid yelled "Salvase Senora" save yourself! but she ventured all the way inside the house, courage on her side and we retreated running into the darkness of the garden. When it was over, we made tea for and illusion of strength, or so we hoped.  My mother, silent until then, finally told me in French "Micheline what are you doing in this hole?" My husband was away on a trip so all of us woman returned to our bedrooms, but I never slept. I thought of her comment but realized it was indeed a very interesting hole and mostly-- a beautiful one. I was far away from my country, but in many ways, I was home.

The high country was my favorite with the smell of the Spanish Broom filling the valley with their scent and the yellow flower floating on the air on their slender stem. Huancayo was one village that pulled on my heart, a village with a huge market that I would walk and explore with the children and that my husband would photograph beautifully.  I would sit and sketch, attracting a group of kids marveling at what I considered mere traces of my pencil. The handmade things varied incredibly and never ceased to fascinate and tempt me. I went from the unique pottery or silver filigree jewelry (light as a dream) to an incredible family of multicolored potatoes so incredibly varied and fun.  I made many friends that later died or got dementia or simply disappeared later from my life but live forever in my memory.

Eating out was a delightful adventure and a surprise, like when my husband ordered oysters and they started to move when he put lemon on it ... I guess freshness was of utmost importance as was the huge size of all the sea food and vegetables there.

I was peacefully at home when my husband walked in one day to tell me "Pack your bag we are going to Bogota Colombia."  I was in mourning. My friends came to tell me how sorry they were.  I was going to live in Bogota, a dreadful, dangerous place and they were so sorry for me.  I had just moved to a new house and our things were still in boxes.  The high Jasmin climber was transplanted by our much loved gardener and was starting to reach the balcony of this new house smelling delicious on the wind.  Moving? I was distressed but packed I did and was on a plane with the family, sad  and fast as I could pack.

But what a surprise! Bogota was a large handsome city, women held important roles in the government, artists became my friends; and even though we had a Wakenhut guard in front of the house, I started to love the food, the gold museum, the haunting song on the guitar and the particulars of this land where people spoke a most beautiful Spanish and received us late at night for dinner.  Pretty soon I was exhibiting my work, having my paintings praised, participating in the art field and having a blast. The butcher was my friend and sent us his best cuts of meat by a delivery boy on bicycle. We had a baby deer for a few months that our friends found on their Finca and that ate the whole garden but was my joy and pride until much bigger when we gave him back to our friends to release to nature.

I had a studio and worked with the Inner Peace Movement, traveled, had lectures in my home and did many counselings.

I learned a lot. I realized that each country carries its own flavor and look but that it was up to me to belong.  They were born there, it was their land and they were used to its idiosyncrasies, its joy and its music, its language and charm.  It was up to me to make myself at home and get others to respect my presence. Up to me to keep a wondrous eye and show an open heart. To try all the food, to dance the rythm of the day, to be the person who would be invited to funerals and celebrate the baptism of the new baby.
People all over have the same aspirations as mine and seem different only at first sight.  Once having shared a cup of tea or or the drink of the land, people are astonishingly the same and that make us a huge Earthling family; a set of souls sharing the same thoughts, the same worries the same hopes and the same sadness or joy as ours. The Spanish spoken there was very different from my native French but it brought a new language to me that still delights my ears and that I miss.

Living in other countries and in South America has made me more receptive and more open, more accepting, more flexible and understanding, more myself. It brought me a beautiful memory of so much that lives in my heart and sometimes creeps into my dreams. The eternal gift given by many lands.

Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre

The Faces of Work

My life of late has been immersed in work. I work most of the time but recently it has been at a furious pace to keep up with the outdoors juried fairs for artists and mostly to maintain my inventory  at a decent level.  We did five shows in a row, one every weekend and that meant waking up very early each day and going to sleep quite late at night.  It meant traveling to those shows or never leaving my studio but for an occasional break. 

It made me think about how "Work" take its place into our lives.  After all, once we are out of school and in many cases before, we are working at one job or the other.  And that is for a long life until we retire and many of us, artists included, never retire completely since our art is an expression of who we are and how we see the world.

Artists are different and the art scene is full of graying hair people who need to express the feeling they experienced all through their life.  Art is the result of a filter that we all possess and that seeps through our emotions and finally yields what we have seen or felt or heard in the form of our art.
Go to an art show and each artist has a different vision and their unique way of seeing the world.  Walking an art show is like peeking into someone else's consciousness.  Quite a feat.

But work could be just as creative and take another form of expression.  It could be the doctor who makes sure our health is good and actively fights every threat to our state of being.  It could be the fireman, the nurse, the teacher, the chef, the engineer or the truck driver to cite a few.  I think there is a difference between work that is a calling, an urge to do it no matter what; and the work that is just  boring; a simple routine that we do just to earn a living.

Working when our soul is not there is a difficult task.  We often look at the passing of time and cannot wait for the weekend to come and give us a sort of relief through other occupations.  That form of work leaves us frustrated and sad.  We go home at night and try to forget the day and its activities. There is nothing to nurture our soul.

Work as a calling is different.  It pursues us once we leave the job, gets in our dreams and incubates thoughts and ideas during the night.  That work is rejuvenating, it brings our mind to the current problem to solve with a form of eagerness and fulfillment.  So why are more people not doing it?

Sometimes infancy presents a very small vision and people, once grown, go to work as a convenient and easy road to provide for life instead of searching their soul for that thing that makes them tick. Sometimes life is tight and the circumstances do not permit people to choose.  Sometimes one does not know what would the pleasing thing be and how to make it a daily opportunity. Such people are like butterflies and jump from one thing to the other never feeling satisfied.  Circumstances do vary an awful lot. But often work is no more than a burden.

One thing that I know as an artist is that no matter what you do, there is a part of it that is always work.  It requires discipline and sometimes the tedium of doing what you have to do.  But when our work is also our life passion, despite all, we thrive with what we do and each day brings us the joy and the wisdom of creating something new.  Not only us artists but what all people do in their own field.  Creativity is not jut a privilege of artists.

Whether work is a pleasure or a bore we all have to work and earn a living unless presented with a rich background and our monthly expenses are covered.  So let us bring our body and soul to work as my friend does who works for the government in helping poor immigrants solve their problems and so find a way to give back to the community -- a real service.

There is also the artist's form of work changing as we change and evolving as we do and that we can do for a lifetime and and never find tiring or boring.  I believe we were born to do it and I guess a calling is just that.

Copyrighted 2011 Micheline Brierre