My old image collection CDs are all at home on my bookshelf. Google isn't helpful in this case. Kneeling seiza beside the sofa, laptop gleaming silently at me, I lay my head down and sigh. Part of me just wants to sleep. But it's only 8 pm. Part of me wants to look more for scraps of images among my email drafts and online photos. Part of me feels...uneasy.
Uneasy. Accused. Where is my first love now? Am I headed down another path of unrequited love, wasted hours - like all those website projects and unfinished stories? How far will it take me before I give up this time? The acquisition of a novel? The acquisition of every little book and resource that I can find on the subject? Will eagerness take me by the hand and lead me down a fruitless, selfish path to nothing?
Anxious. Guilty. I pray. I hesitantly take up Tyndale's translation in hand, unsure where to turn. "For the sprete searcheth all things/yee the bottom of goddes secrets."
This is how it is when I get tangled up in things. This is why I fled from art and am hesitant to return. Because I get caught up in the art, lost in myself, and ultimately lose sight of the Artist. How can I appreciate art and yet retain a proper perspective where I will not become swallowed up by it? How can I love God and others through art without playing the harlot? How can I avoid the fate of King Solomon?