My dad was an artist and loved beautiful things. Our home, which conveyed an aesthetic sense that was pleasing to the eye, wasn’t about money, however, but about beauty, always connected to the heart. It fed my soul.
I’m cynical now, I know. The glossy magazines that come with our newspapers disgust me: all those trees for printing; all those thin, very young women suggesting a fashion that none of us can fit; all that extravagant jewelry to assuage the giver and receiver!. I can’t even mentally support the artist these days because all I see are dollar signs. I know, I know, artists have to live, but that’s another topic.
So what about this little cabin? It’s not going to happen, but it can be a sign of a simpler life, where I don’t have to buy art because it is already there in the mountains, lakes, and sunsets, and where community is kind and gentle.
Tonight, for the second year in a row, I am going with a group from church to the Holiday Caroling Night at the Concord Prison, officially referred to as the Massachusetts Correctional Institution. We had to register in advance and we can't bring anything in with us--no wallet or phone, no glossy magazines, no fancy jewelry—only our driver’s license. The beauty is to sing and celebrate with the inmates, community members and prison staff, and afterwards to enjoy cake and conversation—just like we do at any reception after a concert at church.