Do You Ever Feel Like a Picasso Painting?

I mean, seriously. Look at this thing.

I wouldn’t say I like Picasso’s artwork for the most part. When I see a work of art, I look for beauty. Something that makes me think, “Ah yes …very nice”. Perhaps Picasso is accurate about aspects of life and reflects those well, but he’s not cheerful. In this world full of cruel irony and lost sentimentalism, I frown when I look at this thing.

I wouldn’t have one of his paintings in my house. However, this is how I feel today: disjointed, out of place, broken, and thrown back together as if the maker had lost his plans and guessed where things might go.

The music is far from the instrument, my hands are small, and my eyes are lifeless. I can’t figure out what goes with what. I’m sitting in my lap, licking my tongue. Shadows with no maker. I feel this is how people see me, too …at least for now. But my hands tremble as I calmly assure them …this is not me …let me get myself together. I plead …please wait. I am impatient with myself, too …and justly so …and I’m growing that way with the world.

Is my vision disjointed? What corrections can you make? With one move, the picture could focus or fall apart.  Because I’m disorganized, my strength fails me. I’m three people or just one. Blocky, square, rounded, and colorful but unmatched. My clothes are out of style—a victim of cubism and the cry of collage life. I am pieces of discarded beginnings. Shadows look through me and reach around. I’m hooded and lonely like a leper. Am I here or there? My jaws are out of joint and mute like the painting.

For God’s sake …please know that this is not me. From afar, you’ve seen pieces and set them together with innocent misconceptions. To know me fully will help you arrange these snapshots, these flat squares of my life that hang on the walls of your heart. It is not me. I, the momentarily broken Humpty Dumpty, as all the king’s men shake their mythical heads. Pray, I can be put back together, at least partially, and put back upon the wall. With my friends' help, the best in me, and the God I’ve doubted, I shall reunite my broken hinges.

The older I get, the more I realize that nothing is wrong with being healthily co-dependent (though I’m doggedly independent) and that the high point over two promising hearts holding hands is a God on high, and if doubting becomes your master, you end up like a Picasso.

Do you ever feel like a Picasso?

Thank you for reading my Substack, and remember:

It is the glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out Proverbs 25:2