I received a special text today:
"The clouds are really pretty."
In large part, this text was special because it came from my sixteen-year-old daughter. My Abby is a scholar-athlete, a singer and a friend to many.
She is also an artist at heart. She has yet to take a high school art class, and may never, but she has an exquisite visual sense. She loves clothes and fashion. She loves to point out architectural detail on houses.
Her bedroom is a comfy, eclectic nook that reflects her unique style.
I love that my Abby would take time out of her busy schedule to look at the sky.
Funny that she would do so this afternoon, just after the day's rains had passed, because I, too, had done the very same.
In fact, stopped at a red light in my car, I reached for the camera on my phone. I would have taken a picture of the crazy layering of clouds if the traffic light had not turned green so soon.
Though I do not consider myself an artist in any traditional sense, I find myself drawn to things beautiful. Thus I am unabashed in my own sky-watching. The heavens beckon me, day and night.
I eagerly point out celestial bodies to any within earshot, strangers and friends alike.
My children have tolerated my sun/moon/star/cloud observations for years.
They have also gotten pulled into the every-day obligations of school and sports, leaving them less and less time to ponder the firmament above.
Which is why I am touched when I receive a "pretty clouds" text such as the one described previously.
Or one from my eighteen-year-old son, received last summer, commenting on the full moon.
My children are my children, after all.
Artists they may or may not consider themselves.
But sky-watchers they will likely ever be.
Casco Bay, June 2012
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