I believe that I somehow see the world in a different light than most people. Things around me hold inticate beauty that isn't really visible to most people, and in fact, isn't visible to me unless I really look at them with all senses.
Just now I found myself standing before a wooden shed with rusted locks and hinges on its front. Where most people would only see a wooden shed, I saw a subject worth drawing. I ran my fingertips lightly over the painted wooden surface, the paint worn away in some places. I felt the creases of the wood, the cracks in the surface and the knot holes in their imperfect circles. I could hear my light touch sliding over the creases and natural folds in the wood as it scraped gently like feeling the surface of a freshly cut tree. I could smell the old wood around me; a faint smell of something beautiful and sturdy. The breeze filtered through my hair and lifted my eye lashes slightly, as if trying to open my eyes a bit further so that I might see more of the lines made wider with age.
The fresh air around me filled my lungs and I had a feeling of complete peace; calmness settled around me. I had a vision of drawing the details of the shed first, focusing on small areas at first like the lock or the hinges, maybe the corner of the door and the perfect way it imperfectly lined up with the opening. Then as I took a step back in my minds eye, I invisioned that same shed in its whole among tall trees in a clearing by the wood, behind it stretching out into a vast field surrounded by split rain fences, edged by forrest, spotted with sheep and horses. Far off, at the edge of the field I could picture an old house buit entirely of stone in an ancient hand, the craftsmanship the likes of which the world doesn't see or create today. Even the fictional farm house in my mind had its own texture and feeling. Without touching it, since it didn't really exist but in my mind, I could feel the rouh stone surface. It was weathered and beaten by the rains and winds and yet it stood proud. Smoke billowed through the chimney, making it easy to picture that it was a cold day and someone was inside baking the bread needed for the nightly meal.
While some people would say that it's merely an active imagination, I can only share these pictures through words with the rest of the world. Perhaps that's another reason I write... to paint a picture with words. That house does not exist. The field with sheep and horses does not exist. None of it exists except in my mind. None of it is real, but to me it's all a lart of what I see when I run my fingertips lightly over the painted wood shed. It's not an active imagination so much as it is a desire to see beauty in everything I look at or touch.
I wonder how many people out there could touch the surface of sheep skin slippers and imagine an old wood cutter out by his house chopping wood for the fire while the hides of animals hang tanning in the sun to make warm clothing and blankets for his family. I wonder how many people cal see a stray branch on a tree and wonder how many birds have perched on that limb while searching for its mate. I wonder if anyone else in the world has the same kinds of visions that I have.
Does anyone else in the world see beauty in all that they see and touch? How unique is my view of the world? Is this the very edge of sanity?