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Not Just Another Still Life
Lessons from the quietness
We call this Holy Week.
The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.
I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.
It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.
And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.
Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.
As if.
I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.
