“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
I want to be your wildflower
I felt it in my heart, one fine morning of spring, whilst I wished I was somewhere else, doing something important in some ways, I felt that perhaps I could let You in (…)
Serendipity
What can I do? Write poems, paint. Can I do that on the street? I’ll have to give it a go. Could it be of use to the community? That’s for the community to decide. So I took the leap. Right at the foot of the Sagrada Família. (…)
Nobody wants to talk about war
The wind was changing direction. It was my father who had taught me to do that: to read the mountain skies in summer. I still do it, out of habit, and sometimes people wonder why I suddenly stop and say nothing. I stare intensely at the sky (…)
Christ in disguise
There must have been at least sixty of us in the choir tonight, and it’s always powerful when there are that many of us; the audience is quickly drawn in. But right at the start of the concert, a bloke —a homeless man— started hanging around in the middle, between the audience and us, making strange gestures, it was a bit awkward having him there (…)
Singing in the rain
The street? Empty. Yet, as the show begins, it seems as though our voices are like a campfire in the night. People automatically stop, draw closer to warm their hands, their souls, their hearts (…)
“It does come. But it comes
only to the patient,
who are there as though eternity lay before them,
so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain
to which I am grateful:
patience is everything!”
