Come sit at my table

Van Gogh, dreamwork and wanting to write to eat.

August last year I stumbled upon the ‘Terraza del cafe’ by Vincent Van Gogh for $45 while thrifting. Immediately drawn to it, I somewhat felt it was a gift waiting for me to find it. 

I had no idea what the paintings undertones were, but I knew it needed to come home with me. This print of the original painting was so large that upon taking it home there was no where practical for it to go other than in our bedroom. It found home in a prominent position on my dresser, taking residence in a way that it would become my first view upon rising each day.

Curiosity led me to pour over the history of the painting and I learnt of theories that the cafe scene might be of reference or a depiction of Jesus and the 12 disciples and ‘The last supper’. If you look closely you can see a man dressed in white (believed to be Jesus) serving 11 figures at the table, it is believed that the figure slipping through the doorway might symbolise Judas. 

In my treasure hunt for information I learned that before devoting his attention to painting, Van Gogh’s wish was to story-tell the gospel, everywhere—so an allusion to his faith wouldn’t be too out of character for Van Gogh.

Later upon finding the painting and after a very large and turbulent series of events I found some words buoyantly moving around me with a message my heart would need for the year ahead, it landed as a a powerful and irresistible invitation—

“Come sit at my table”. 

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I wanted to share a body of work that I wrote last year 9 months after finding the painting, a piece that is excerpt to stories wrapped in stories, a word catalyst that had me taking 9 months away from art production. I am only now just dipping my toes back in the water…

Life has these beautiful synchronicities that feel far beyond happenstance.

In essence, I am hoping to continue to cultivate a life from this posture at the table. This new writing practice ‘Catching Shower Flowers’ is me honouring the convictions learned last year, tending to my livelihood (that is creativity) in a way that is not led by fast paced production, but more so, by presence. This in many ways feels like an impossible pursuit, counter to what my body holds and tells me.

I’m yet to know if this way of creativity as a means to my livelihood and providing for my family is possible, but every week, paid subscription upon paid subscription in the slow and building support of my writing, I feel hopeful. Thank you for your presence here.

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Come beneath the surging waves, 

the sand is soft while the light is floating on the water's top.

Catch your breath for a little while…

hands become slow,

you feel the unfolding... 

feet falling lightly

and

tears 

falling 

heavy

with the music

because they can. 

The laughter is loud and somewhat holy,

the breeze, honest 

the sounds, slow. 

There are times we are called to be nocturnal,

asking the moon if she might sleep for us instead because some prayers require a particular shade of blue

but when the first light chooses you,

rise gently—

and with the sun 

and her yellow & open hands,

receive your invitation to another day—

hold it

and before you hurry on in,

ask…

What of it, 

is yours…

And what is not?

This year, 

When the actual rivers rose high here

And houses went under

And hearts did too

And my place of making was cleared out by water from the skies

And the actual heart inside my chest,

beat out of rhythm for 17 hours straight

And the butterflies within me wanted freedom,

And flew violently out of my body…

I heard heart-speak at the shoreline and it sounded much like… 

“Come sit at my table”...

In an age that swears we must run long to catch every last drop of light, we can choose to sit for the longer lunch. It's in our earnest acquaintance to welcome a life that allows gaps, that a heart can carve margin for what it didn’t know it needed. 

I have become less afraid of spaces unfilled as the beginnings of my hair find more silver and the days become longer in this.

And in the songbook of feelings…time slows down when I no longer want or need self-prescribed reveries. I want to sit slowly through the discomfort of my own sensibilities and when they begin I’ll gently move through the middle, all the way to their sometimes ends, eating a four course meal in their presence. And I’ll do this all over again but this time with laughter, other times tears. 

It’s this, that I thought I already knew, that I learnt this year.

Come beneath the surging waves, 

the sand is soft while the light is floating on the water's top.

Catch your breath for a little while…