The Vintage Man

My cousin, Christina sent me the poem, The Vintage Man, by Hafiz (rendered by Daniel Ladinsky). In it, he writes of an artist who hurts his art and his heart with violent self-depreciation. [This is, of course, my interpretation.] The wise man, "the vintage man," does not. He hurts no one. Rather he goes to work, sculpting light. My dear Christina sculpts light. She is the vintage man. 

I once wandered in and out of the fog. I was once the novice, hurting my art and my heart with violent self-deprecation. [This is, of course, my interpretation.] 

Now I seek and simplify and settle into stillness. Now I surrender to my journey's authentic magnificence. 

I do wonder when we, human beings, will collectively stop battering ourselves. I wonder when we will rise from the unconscious "novice" to the quiet, light-filled "vintage man." 

Until then, I will sift for gold, for wisdom that has slipped through the pens of poets. And when I find it, I will invite the small sun to sit with my soul. 

This, these whittled words of hope, is a sculpture of light. 

I can be a sculpture of light. 

I can also be the vintage man.