theme of themes and word of words

When I went to that writing conference last spring, most folks in my critique group said my essay had crisp lines and fresh descriptions, but no clear theme. Of course it had a theme. That theme was a life. My life in so far as it intersected with my great uncle Vic, who lived with us during my teenage years and was my friend. Who goes to a funeral and says afterwards, "Great funeral, terrific guy. He had an amazing life, but sadly, no clear theme emerged"? Themes are up to the listener in my opinion. Who wants to be handed a script of exactly what to think about what they see or read? The mulling is half the fun.

I might have been better about themes had I not been hanging out at thrift shops and yard sales for the past twenty-seven years. I love to stare at jumbles of junk and ponder the whole mess for inspiration. 

All my adult life, I've had a recurring dream that I'm the first person to arrive at an estate sale, and get plenty of time to select whatever I want before anyone else is allowed in. Of course, that's exactly what didn't happen when my mom died. First, her yucky husband said my sisters and I couldn't even come in to get anything. Then my uncle escorted us back to the trailer with his rifle cocked and loaded. Guns talk, ya know. Yucky Dude then grudgingly gave us exactly thirty minutes to select a few keepsakes. Queue recurring dream. But I digress. 

The point is that in life, as we go along, we get to keep learning. We get to keep gathering treasures, like friends or experiences, to build us into better people. What I learn more with each passing day is that intuition trumps intellect. Is that a theme? If so, it's mine. All of these pictures are from the Porte de Vanves Flea Market in Paris last Sunday.

Here is a related quote, which I love, from the book The Art Spirit by the artist Robert Henri, which I read on my trip. I learned so very much from this book about art, photography and life.

     "Art appears in many forms. To some degree every human being is an artist, dependent on the quality of his growth. Art need not be intended. It comes inevitably as the tree from the root, the branch from the trunk, the blossom from the twig. Non of these forget the present in looking backward or forward. They are occupied wholly with the fulfillment of their own existence  The branch does not boast of the relation it bears to the great ancestor the trunk, and does not claim attention to the magnificent red apple it is about to bear. Because it is engaged in the full play of its own existence, because it is full in its own growth, its fruit is inevitable."

Don't ya just love that?