I am running errands. Running with my mind cluttered by Christmas and all its trappings.
And so, on a whim, I peel off I-581 and take the exit into downtown. Park just under the pedestrian bridge, across the tracks from the art museum.
I take a long breath, and cross over.
Inside the museum, a wide staircase of glass soars to the second floor. Above that, something is shimmering, suspended in the light of the atrium.
It hovers — diaphanous as a moth’s wing, but massive — big as a ship’s sails.
And the colors … oh, so many colors.
I follow my eyes up the long flight of stairs.
When I get to the top, I stand there staring around me … bathed in rainbow light:
The work that hovers above me — I’m not sure what to call it — is Rachel B. Hayes’ Not Fade Away, a kind of giant patchwork quilt made of translucent fabric. Floating there with the vista of the city behind it, it looks like a series of stained glass windows loosed from the rigid context of their frames — soaring upward, suddenly fluid and free.
I stand there for awhile. I try to feel that freedom with my eyes, but also with my light-drenched skin. And I listen, in the quiet, for whatever voice might speak.
Or not speak.
This is what the silence sounds like:
It’s a language my body understands. ❤