My life has been changed by filmmakers.
Perhaps “changed” is too familiar a word to grasp the depths of what I mean.
My life has a completely new perspective based on the artists that have ransacked my perceptions by shoving their steady-cam shots and high-def filters into it.
I woke this morning at the first hint of sunlight that made it’s way past my lashes. I was satisfied with the amount of sleep I had been given as I lay listening to the rain fall.
Today has been one of those days — I felt like a disappointment for not making it to church for the live painting I had planned and I forgot to give my neighbor back his hex key set. Plagued a woman, am I.
I took the morning to nest.
I made tea and hung up my sweaters;
Emptied old suitcases and hid them under the freshly-made bed.
Then I just sat in my chair and listened. My eyes fixed beyond the windows; my gaze adjusting to the bright and dark rain clouds crossing over it’s sun.
Sometimes I think I imagine my life as a film. That every move is watched and analyzed — that there is a hidden meaning to each next key played in or out of tune.
But film, moving or still, teaches me to see my ordinariness as significance. It forces me to stop wondrously, like a child, and “stand before the great mystery into which we were born.”*
Even when I am lost and buried under a weight of thought — when nothing seems to make sense and circumstances file themselves in the (color-categorized) vaults of my mind I —
Can still hear the rain falling quietly from the roofs and sliding past my window as it makes it way to the earth below.
The birds still make their way over the houses and through the trees back to their homes hundreds of miles away.
This baffling place in which I have crawled from is but a whisper of the symphonies yet to be discovered.
Hope and beauty are what pull me through to the next scene.
But filmmakers teach me that no matter how incredible the shot — no matter how lovely the sound design — nothing can compare to the simple gift of this very moment.
A film has yet to touch my face with it’s wind; or grasp it’s crispness in my lungs. It can take me to other places, but it cannot burn it’s memory into the chambers of my heart.
Oh, the irony is that even these thoughts are it’s own film — an idealistic memory now played by my own imagination. The aperture is set; the ISO changing by each cloud rolling past; the director holding his breath as the film begins to roll.
….all being recorded to remind me that I am not the heroine of my own tale.