It was my good fortune to attend an event on art and empathy. The setting could not have been more gracious, being a museum whose walls and balconies are themselves adorned with a stunning collection of beauty.  The speaker addressed the remarkable goal of humans flourishing. As I limp through the last days of winter, and moan at the atrocities across the planet, the notion of abundant joy is appealing. She included in her definition of art those activities that engage many senses, like theater, music, literature, and visual endeavors. 

Last week I attended a play called Working, and was surprised by how much it touched me. But the confusing part is that when I tried to explain it to John, I fell quiet. 

Art seems capable of bypassing those handy tools called words, and accessing our emotions directly. I don't understand it. 

The speaker talked about research that suggests that immersing ourselves in art, even for a few minutes, can render quantifiable results. People are more calm, feel connected to others, and let go of stress. 

I remember going to a Van Gogh immersion experience with my daughter, and becoming part of the colors around me. She and I have gone to quilt exhibits as well, and one devoted to textiles. 

Our oldest daughter took her father to the Met in New York and brought home a reproduction of a Rodin for me. The sculpture depicts the creation of a man and woman, tucked into the hand of God. It soothes me to gaze at it, where the messiness of becoming partners meets the tender protection of the genuine source of Creativity.