The Artist

We all used to live differently.  Back in the before times.  it is said, there was something called color.  Yes, I know that we say we have color today, but what we think of as color really is all shades of grey--white to black and the shades in between--nothing can really merit the name "color".  We look out at our landscapes:  cool grey sky, taupe mountains, ash grey shrubs and dark slate grey trees,  and we see it as an artist's pallet.  I used to agree, but no more.  Because I met the Artist.

It happened many years ago.  I was wandering in the woods, and there was a tap on my shoulder.  "Are you enjoying your walk?"  asked the man.    He was dressed as we all were, in grey tops and slate pants, but there was something off about him.  I couldn't really put my finger on it.  I thought he was nice to have spoken, though, so I answered, "Yes.  I always enjoy walking through the grass around here.  It's so pretty, isn't it?"

"Is it?" he said.  "You realize that you aren't seeing it properly."

"What do you mean?"  Somehow I really wanted to hear what he had to say, because I had felt that way for years.  I love my home, but it's always seemed that there has to be something--well, something more!

"You have soot in your eyes," he said.  "Here, let me help you."  He spat on his hand and wiped his two hands together.  Before I could recoil, he put his hands over my eyes!  I was about to protest.

Then he removed his hands.

For the first time in my life, I saw colors.  The trees were the most beautiful things I had ever seen.  The grass sparkled with dew that I'd never even realized was there.  The dirt was made up of countless pieces of tiny little rock, each one singular, every bit unique.  Amazing!  I looked up at the Artist, and I couldn't believe it.  How could I have thought he was dressed like me?  He was simply glowing and alive with color!  His hair--so many colors all joined together to make an autumn carpet.  His skin was delicate and beautiful and rugged and strong, all at the same time. His eyes were neither green nor blue nor brown, yet all three at the same time.  And all around him, clothing him, were a myriad of colors:  the purple of penitence and royalty, the white of purity, the blue of truth--and the red of martyrdom, the fire of Holiness.  It was at that moment that I realized that the Artist was the most important man in the world.  He took my hand in his and began to tell me his secrets.  Yes, he knew many secrets--the secrets of my world.  He remembered a time when everyone could see colors, but now only he and his followers could see them, and only he could see them as they truly were.  I was being given a special glimpse, but from now on, I would only see dimly, through a filter of grey.  However, I knew that I would never forget this moment and the precious gift that had been given to me.  He held me close and whispered, "Go and tell others what you've seen!"

And it was at that moment that I awoke.

I hadn't realized that I'd been dreaming, but now I was back.  At first, I thought that nothing had changed, but then I realized that EVERYTHING had.  From that day, I made it my mission to tell others about the artist--this great creator who desires nothing more than for us to be able to fully enjoy his creation.  

As I go about my way, I see many people.  Some--most--feel no need for fairy tales.  They say that they already see perfectly--how dare I insinuate that their lives are anything but filled with color!  I feel sad for them as they walk away.  Their pride has already diminished them and caused them to fade to almost nothing.  Others say that they would like to see, but they aren't good enough.  They want to buy special glasses first, or take classes in gazing, or maybe have a special helper who can cause them to see more clearly.  They simply can't believe me when I say that the Artist can do that without any help from them.

But then I find a wanderer like myself.  I know them right away--even with my limited vision, I can see the shimmer of truth around them.  I tell them of the Artist, and they become excited--they always knew there was something more, and now I was explaining how to find it!  They often come back to tell me of their personal encounter, and we laugh and cry together.  The Artist has promised that one day he will come back and roll away all the soot, and then the only grey that we will see is the grey that is supposed to be there.  There will be no more distortion.  We look forward to that day.  Until then, though, we are not left alone.  The Artist left a piece of himself--a sense of beauty that we all share.  Until the Artist himself returns, Beauty guides us in the night and helps us walk toward morning.