The Kaleidoscope Will Have Shaken

Dear Friend,

It is the evening of Daylight Savings and my body is stubbornly out of sync with my wristwatch. It was Summer, the days never seemed to end, and this mirage held in timeless perfection. But then it wasn’t, and now they do, and so it shall come undone. Since when did this come to pass? Since when did evening fall so cold upon the City, did night smother so soon the sun? The streets are lined in Autumn's carnage. Let us find a quiet bench in the Park, within its timeless grove. Take hold of my hand, and close your eyes. We shall fall together into the kaleidoscope.

Breathe, and the wind stirs up a pile of crimson embers, and a painting takes form before us.

We are at the Met, in the South wing of the Museum, at the Impressionist gallery. Before us, a gilded, landscape frame, and within it, a water lily pond, split in thirds. A patch of cotton candy sky is mirrored off the center third, flanked on either side by two banks of floating lilies. The right bank hovers above the reflection of swaying willows. The left bank lies further away, and it is in bloom, and each pad holds within it a gentle flame. This, I claim, is one of Monet's more defiant works. There is no focal point, no horizon, and the strokes melt into one another with ease. It is timeless, mysterious. The gentle melancholy of the composition may just as easily be set at daybreak or dusk.

Look closer, I beckon you. As you step in, the illusion fades away. Focus on each detail, and you shall see that, in truth, the painting makes little sense at all. Each flower is unmasked as a smear of red, each petal a scar of yellow. It may be disappointing, if you expect to find recursive order within, but I find that there is beauty in its absurdity. Each stroke is a mess, seemingly devoid of meaning. But walk back, step by step, and beauty begins to take shape.

May we be so brave as to live life unafraid to paint bold strokes. And may we find beauty in it all when we reflect come evenfall.

Twirl, and let the galleries melt into streaks of vibrant hues, and a new world comes to view.

We are at the Seven Sisters, two hours from London, on a stony beach by the water's edge. To our left, grazing sheep wander the rolling meadows. To our right, white-crested waves crash upon the shore. Before us, a stream rushes into the sea, keeping us from the chalk cliffs that rise in the distance. I hold my leather shoes in my hand, my bloodied socks tucked into their toes. We have come this far to see the cliffs, and we have, for it is a beautiful view before us, but surely, we shall not return without reaching their steps. You agree. We step into the water, unfazed by the cold currents, and amble to the edge of the stream.

The stream is unyielding before us. At its deepest point, the sediment hides the stones beneath. Just one step at a time, you say, and I agree, for there is no shame in turning back so long as we try. We step into the rushing water. Step by step, we push forward, each step finding sure purchase before taking the next. The water rises to our knees, threatening to sweep us into the sea, but just a few steps later, and we've escaped the worst of it. A few more, and we've reached the other bank.

We laugh as we sit on the cold beach, waiting for the sun to dry our feet before continuing onwards. Soon, we shall reach the cliffs, and from their peaks we shall feel that we've conquered the world.

Dance with me; let the world tumble until sky and land and sea blend to one, and a new set falls into place.

We have returned to the Park, but this time, we shall walk the Mall, that tree-line path which leads to the Fountain Terrace and the Lake beyond. It is Summer yet, but we will take our time, following our own path as the world races by before us. Step by step, we walk. Day turns to night and into day once more. Another step. The leaves turn yellow, then orange, and red; they fall from the trees as flame made glass. We are halfway to the Fountain. The passersby flash by as streaks before us. Our breath turns to pale clouds as the days grow cold.

We are nearly there. Down the steps and through the arcade, and at last, we reach the water's edge. There is the boathouse, to our right, and if you have painted this scene as I intend, it shall be ringed in glorious Autumn flame. Let me still the Lake, and you shall see each bough reflected off its mirror finish.

Magic, is it not? To conjure the world, to be everywhere and anywhere and here. This may be the season of waning, but how beautiful it can be, to shed that which shall not survive Winter.

Shake the kaleidoscope, once more, and show me where you land.

Forevermore, Eden