Circles

There were 500 images to see this afternoon at the annual Art Museum chalkfest, but once I found the section with circles I barely moved from the zone.  I ignored 3/4th of the paths.  I just wanted these wobbly concentric images. I wanted them all.  If I could have, I would have laid down on the sidewalk and tattooed my black shirt with them.  I would have asked an artist to draw one on my face. I would have swallowed them like sweetarts.  Like pizzas, like pie.

Is is womb? Is it sun? Is it a hole? It is pattern?  Finite yet unfinished? Is it unity?  Wholeness?  Layers of personae? An egg? An onion? I do not know.

I am curious if this image arrives and speaks to me when I am most laden and low.  I wonder if it pulls me in, hypnotizes me with its simple integrity.

It’s funny how fickle and jagged my days have been.  Yesterday, flying high.  Today, morose and woolly.  I prayed in church.  I went to the sanctuary of Cinemark Valleyview.  But today the circles saved me.

I think it may be because the circle contains both the falling and the rising, the turn of events and the recovery.  The circle is like breath, it is like the beat that leaves and returns to the heart. It is season, it is plate, it is the moon shining back the best and worst in us, indiscriminately with light.

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