That’s a line from Steven Heighton’s poem “Gravesong.” You don’t really need any context to find deep meaning in those words. I don’t. Because lines from that poem just sing to me, like this one does, like lyrics do, and that’s likely how they came to Steve, too — from his “night mind,” a song sung to him in his sleep possibly, one he madly scribbled on paper when he woke.

He would do that. I love that he did.

At any rate, it’s a good line to have written on a scrap of paper and tacked to a cork board by your desk, if you have one. It’s a perfect reminder to a writer — to write. To snap out of it, if you happen to be in a funk. To focus or refocus. To get it down.

“Gravesong” is from Steven Heighton’s The Address Book. The arresting photo on the cover of the book was taken by Nancy Friedland. Long before I knew who Nancy was, I loved the art work. Initially, I’d thought it was a painting, it just has that grainy yet somehow smooth look to it, nuanced details that seemed to me intricately, beautifully captured by an artist’s brush with oil paint on canvas, and not a camera. But no, it’s a a photograph, and a gorgeous one. Looks to me like a snap from the ’70s — a middle-aged man swimming in a lake, reaching out mid-stroke, eyes closed, perhaps a little girl on his back for the ride. But that part is cropped out, so there’s an inkling of something more.

That is one of the beautiful things that draws me to certain works of art: the details of what they show, and the mysteries of what they do not. Albert Einstein famously wrote, “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.” And I agree wholeheartedly.

Yesterday, Nancy Friedland sent me a gift. I’ve known Nancy for a few years now, through mutual friends and social media, and I’ve come to deeply appreciate her art — and her kindness. A few years back, out of the clear blue, I got a big package in the mail: it was the most exquisite painting of Ellie, my cat and near-constant companion. I’d been having a rough time with depression and grief, and maybe physical pain as well, and Nancy painted Ellie out of the kindness of her heart, got my address from a mutual friend, I suspect, and mailed me this incredible gift. I marvelled at that painting for quite a long time — in joy and wonder, happy, grateful tears spilling down my cheeks. Then I saved up some money and had it professionally framed. I cherish it, still. It’s soothing, brings me joy, and reminds of the kindness of others.

That’s backstory to yesterday’s gift from Nancy: a new painting.

This one has no name that I know of, but it’s something I asked Nancy about — if she’d ever painted something specifically for a writer who was working on a novel; an image, say, that would serve as “temporary” cover art for the book. I’m unsure if she had done that before, but she very kindly agreed to do it for me. And I’m absolutely thrilled at the remarkable painting she sent me yesterday, which I suppose I’ll call The Winter Roommate, the title of the novel I’m working on.

I see so much in this painting. (I see worlds and stories!) The cozy warmth of the light glowing in the windows. A welcoming home, a cottage-like home in the city. Two people talking on a patio in winter, and it’s clearly an intense and intimate conversation, in the private universe of that warm glow. Their backs are facing the street, which seems to me an intriguing invite — so that passersby would surely think, “I wonder what those two are taking about?”

Those two people, whom I know very well now, might be facing each other, too — even I don’t know. But that’s the magic of this masterful art: it’s alive, it’s moving. So that, yes, at once they appear to be facing one another, and then, on second glance, the woman on the right seems to be looking inside the cottage, likely deep in thought, and the man might be too.

“Oh, no,” I can hear someone saying, “She’s definitely looking at him. She’s calmly studying him and listening with affection.”

Everyone will see something different, of course.

That’s the magic.

Good art really is instant, intense inspiration, too.

That cat is a mischievous stray who likes to tightrope-walk the porch railing. He roams but never far. And I love that he appears to be playing with his shadow. Perhaps, too, he’s aware of the conversation but also of something across the street — a squirrel scurrying up a hydro poll, a neighbour out shovelling snow. Or just maybe he’s looking at us. Cats are magical too, really. Who hasn’t wondered what a cat is thinking? Who hasn’t tried to figure out why cats do what they do? There’s beauty in that mystery too.

Those majestic pine trees have their own stories, shading that space long before the charming little cottage-like home was built. The cottage is set back from the quiet street, too, which lends it an even cozier feeling, I think, and you can just imagine a lovely space out back as well — perhaps a garden in a small backyard, and maybe it’s backed by a stream, and all of it sheltered by those beautiful pines. Three seasons of the year, the backyard is a quiet, soothing haven, a place to rest and read; in spring, its garden is gloriously in bloom.

The lighted walkway is an invitation too, lit by the warm glow of the front door. Which is open, it almost appears, or, at the very least, it’s not locked. Most certainly, this is a welcoming home.

It’s a sort of finish line for me, but more so a better, clearer vision of the space my characters inhabit — in present time, at the moment; and perhaps in present time when the book is complete.

That photo on the cover of The Address Book is on Nancy’s website (nancyjanefriedland.com), as are many of her luminous paintings, and yes, as it happens, there is a young girl on that swimmer’s back. I can’t recommend or praise Nancy’s art work highly enough. Truly, it speaks for itself. Check it out.

Three of her paintings were featured in the August issue of Harper’s, accompanying “The Return,” a wickedly good and haunting short story by Joyce Carol Oates. If you can get yourself a copy of that, you’ll know just how affecting Nancy’s artwork is in the midst of a story. They are not merely complimentary scenery. They add depth to the story, yes. But they are worlds within another world. Stories in a story.

Nancy’s gift came on a hard day. But it touched me deeply, and today I feel immensely inspired and excited because of her magnificent painting.

“It’s wake yourself now or never be woken.” I like to think Steve did write that line as a lyric, the poem as a song. (The word song is, in fact, in the title; there’s a clue, huh.) And that he meant it not as a one-time thing. Lyrics stick in our heads. Some become mantras. Others inspire. Some are just fun. Some we quote. Steve was smart enough to know we all, from time to time, fall into little slumbers in life, and that sometimes we need that gentle and precious reminder to wake up.

Nancy’s gorgeous gift woke me up, just when I needed it most.