I had been ‘told’ months ago that when I created art, energy would come through. That my art, essentially, was a doorway. The same was ‘told’ to me about my words years ago.
Here is an example from my other space of creation:
When I connect to create, I believe I am connecting to the heart-mind of compassion. I believe in the collective unconscious and the river that carries endless channels of geometric unions. There is not intention when I create, except to connect, and even that intention can block me from being.
I am at most peace when I am joined in union with source. I seek comfort in aspects of spiritual wisdom that conveys the unity of all and the release of all suffering. I am at peace when focused on serving and loving the All. I am most out of sorts when I focus on a select one, whether that be an individual of my projected affection of my own self.
This focus on self or another singular of choice feels as an addiction; I way to escape the reality that is not. To avoid the recognition that I am truly alone in my oneness. To avoid the present reality that I am only united in the truth of All. I struggle to surpass my individual nature and travel the road of courageous unhindered and unbridled universal love. A part, an old history of cyclic lives I am, longs to return to what he/she thought once was the truth, the power of love of objects, including people made into possession.
I often, in my ‘weakest’ moments, long to connect to a one that is of flesh who can fill me with the potential promise of connection and escape. I have sought this since a young child: the eyes of a human one to take me in and harbor me safely there. I know to a great degree that the essential one is already this that I be; and following, in so recognizing I am of not, I understand the essential healing is found within the beyond viewing of the observer. In the stepping out of self and maintaining the eyes of constant viewer whilst alleviating the suffering woes of judgment and wanting something outside the moment.
What leaves me trembling is the way I now walk in the world; unable entirely to find joy in the simplicity of objects and collections, in the planning of excursions and accomplishments, in the coming of gatherers and givers; and wonder beyond creation through what earthly source shall I seek comfort.
Nothing of me is left that was; yet, everything that is remains. I am certainly a lost voyager, still rediscovering the pathways to self , merely to move beyond self and enter the outer ways of not being. Still the corridors can be dark and uninviting, the longing to connect moving as drafty air and circulating through the space I am.
In my saddest moments, I am curled, very much a child, into myself, on the floor of a small room, screaming through agonizing tears, washing out all the ways in which my humanness predicates my disconnection; though ironically, my human form is what I return to in finding connection.
The contradictions are unworldly. The thoughts plummeting through me, carrying beyond self over and over, and across the years that must have been the blink of my last consciousness. I am somewhat divided and opened, and then shut again. Re-circling and dying through the daylight and into the night.
When I am at most peace I beg to be re-carved and set deeper into the knowledge, so I might find my own peace in the process of relieving the suffering of All. There is no other purpose for me now. And the human flesh dislikes this deeply, the one who is noticed and signified by ego’s mask.
I am a duality. Just as the male and female aspects of self reawaken, the whole of me sleeps. And as the whole of me awakens, the dual spirit of naught resurfaces. There is a battle without a feud. A coming of day into night and night into day, when added up and viewed over a lifetime would seem natural, even irrelevant. Though, here, in this spinning cycle, the transitions and transferring, the switching and forging, the surrendering and forgiving, repeat over and over before the hands on the clock have time to move. I know not what to do, yet know enough that to know not is enough.
I am enough in my being, even as I see no being. And so I find this gentle solitude in creation, in which I release all expectations, beyond being guided and having something to substantiate my experience. I ask that the truth of me come through. That the universal all slip through my fingers onto the screen or awaiting canvas. I know not how I do this or why, only that I am called over and over. Only that to live the life I was is to die again, and to live the life I am is to finally breathe.
Belly of a Star 