The Handmade Card

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The folded card has texture. I touch the soft organic outer edges , irregular, not perfect. The card is warped , twisted to one side permanently flipped up, wonky. The front has been painted using watercolor with additional pen details. The colors are vibrant, bold, cheerfully inviting. Very large areas of persimmon represent two BIG poppies pushing their way front and center. Small dark stamens painted , delicate and intentional. The background is harder to define. The underneath is soft, lines are blurred, melting into each other. Colors smooshing into other colors, making new connections through color wheel compliments. Blue, green, purple. She told me her favorite color is purple. I remember because I do not prefer purple and questioned her taste.

I am filled with a sense of honor because this card is a handmade token of love, an S.O.S. Why do I feel I must hide from connection, is it because the energy drains me like a broken hydro dam?

Picking up the card I can see unexpected strokes of shimmer when held in the right light. Green blades of grass turn into sparkly attractors, hooks that pull your eye inside, baited and caught. I open the card touching it’s uneven bumpy surface. The paper is heavy and has an undeniable swag of handmade. The words inside remind me that art is really about connection. A way to communicate without words , to compliment words, to connect. Connecting to those who see you or those who wish to see you.

I feel dread reading the words. Dread because I am a bad person for not doing my part, not connecting back, not pushing the plug into the waiting receptacle.

The energy expended immersed in human experience drains me, depletes me. My responsibility then should be to learn HOW to communicate enough to stay sane but not too much as to dehydrate my soul.

The handwriting inside is soft, steady, perfect. It gently screams purpose, a need to care.

I wish to be a better friend , the card inspires me.

Will it be enough?