Wandering into an evening and arising to a page in a Journal ~
Close your eyes and listen.
I echo through the land in the chatter of cicada. In the shrill trill of each bird I am ever speaking. But do you hear me today? Listen dear one. Know I Am within and about the substance of all you see, hear, taste … and think. Indeed, I Am All. Even while sitting, understand and know this … and you will find your foot set to a path unseen … but known truly by those who have walked before you, and even now, with you.
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Listen.
Take the quiet into the chaos. The mystery into the evident. Become that which you are. Set aside the masks, although their purpose seems true … revealing the face of the Divine, shining forth through appearance, word, & deed.
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The Art of Becoming.
Becoming. A seed, simple, pure, & true, unfolds in perfect time, as intended. In kind, each man holds his own perfect potentiality … beyond the husk. Life … and death are evident from first breath. Unspoken, tension builds in the balancing.
The art seeks expression through the bridled breath of the artist … upon a palette raw and receptive. The art lives even before manifestation, just as the seed buried in the darkened depths of the earth. Moving beyond conscious recognition, color and form move together, wrestling in mind for the ripening of thought … a softening husk, until a tendril seizes a slit, unfurling.
Will it survive? Will it find a place to breathe and drink? Will the artist receive it? Will it find a place to root, maturing to bear fruit? Will he allow himself to enter the flow, breaking free from preconceived notions … and memories?
We will never know which mundane seeds survived and which did not. As to the art that seeks expression through each of us, “the artist” … who knows? I sense “the art” will never cease its efforts to become … for it knows the truth of that which hinders us … life and death.
