Climate change

Today I got yet another reason to give up on my art. I received a beautifully worded, long-winding email from the organizers of a prestigious international art competition telling me that my work, which I had entered into their competition, was not picked by the juror. They went on to congratulate me, wish me all the best in my future endevours and hoped that I will try for 2014!

Well, now I am thinking maybe, really, my work is not good enough. And I am Ok with that. I will keep doing it. Maybe next year, the new juror will like it. Or by next year, I will not need to enter any competitions. I don't know. I will just keep drawing and painting because I love it so much.

After the initial disappointment of not being chosen, I realise something very important: For the first time in my life, I believe in my art. I marvel at it because it truly speaks the language of my heart and my life. Anyone who sees it, sees a little bit of me. And some may not like it, just as not everyone who knows me likes me. I am Ok with that too.

Mmmmhhhh, that's that. This is part of what I meant to write today with regards to the title above:

Winter is upon us. It is but only one moon ago that the sun shone brightly and scotched our skin, as our children played and our women sung joyous summer songs. Now, a cold wind blows from the sea, cutting short the rays of the sun. We huddle around the fire to catch some warmth as we reminisce over the beautiful summer days by the beach.

Our elders now lament about the frightfully long winters and grievously shorter summers. They tell us it was not always so. When they were young, the rainmakers could call upon the rain or hold the clouds at will. Now, our seasons are seasons no more for we cannot tell of their coming or their going.

Our learned men call it climate change. We call it the curse of a troubled earth.

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