I remember the first time I laid eyes on Vincent van Gogh’s Irises.
When I was at the (often times) challenging age of 14 there was little beauty in my life. Spending my days immersed in daydreams and books kept me from falling into the depths of despair – as I felt that the earth was a hulking beast just waiting for a chance to suck me six feet under.
I came upon Irises while randomly flipping through an art book at the library. Such beauty, I thought, as I ran my fingers across the picture. The musty smell of old used books drifted away replaced by the rich aroma of warm dirt. Placing my hands on the page, I could feel every textured brushstroke. Suddenly I’m falling into the painting…
The day is the perfect temperature; wonderfully hot with a good breeze. I feel it caressing my skin and blowing through the flowers at my feet. Gorgeous blue Irises on long stems of green surrounded by little orange fluffs reminiscent of disks cover the field. I feel small and completely safe. My limbs are languid and light as I float amongst the irises with no thoughts in my head. Just peace. The warm dirt under my bare feet is an odd mixture of rough and smooth bringing to mind crushed velvet.
I laugh. Everything here is beautiful.