394. Solo show in Brazil

I was not there. I sent my paintings over. They were framed there and this is the opening.

393. The filter

This time I won’t write a poem, but a description .

At first, when I drew, I thought that the lines represented the pain that I experienced, Relentless and continuous.
Then they looked like rain.
And in the end they started to look like trees without leaves, shivering in the cold.

Behind the lines there is a landscape.

The lines are like a filter that you have to pass, if you want to go beyond. You can get caught in the filter and you will suffer pain, rain, cold and longing for leaves.

But you can also pass gently, carefully, sensitively, through the spaces between the lines, and then you will find yourself in the place where it is beautiful.

This, in a way, is the essence of spiritual practice.

You can’t eliminate all the obstructions in your personal filter. Usually there are too many of them. But you can teach yourself how to pass in the spaces among them, to arrive at where there is beauty, love, playfulness and joy. The air from the landscape is already here.

And when your practice is through making art, you are already half way there.

392. Dream

It used to be a mountain
Full of rocks
And now it is a dream
That dreams itself
To be.

391. To the sun

The poem describes a trip from left to right in the picture.

I am running rhythmically
Down a tree covered hill
Becoming breathless suddenly
As I see the omen in the air.

The landscape sends me
Through the fields
Toward a tree that welcomes me
Into a spot
from which I’ll have to leap
Across the empty sky
To meet the sun
That hides behind a cloud.

And I wonder:
How will I make the leap
after having lost my name?

390. How?

Wanting
And the want dissolves

Fluttering once more
In the wordless void,

How can anything
Not wholly beautiful
exist?

389. When he fell

He was hungry
When he fell
His green was still alive
His sun still yearned to shine
A little more
His joys and sorrows
Leaned against the wall
The light has started
Growing bigger
It was beautiful
He knew
Now where is
The unseeable heart
That will accept him all
Into itself?

388. To birds

The man with pain
Has forgotten everything
And now
He gives
the things he used to have
To birds.

387. Disappearing

I am disappearing
In my room
Gray light is coming
From the window
My lungs are still breathing
Sky
My heart is still beating
Red and green
Broken as I am
I still remember earth.

386. The boat of life

The king in me 
Is sitting on a chair
The chair is on a rock
The rock is resting on the sun

The king is cold
And has a blanket on his knees

Near the king
The prince is playing
With his yellow ball
Dreaming
On a lake up in the sky
Where golden fish are swimming

The king is too old to rule
The prince is too young
To take his place

The boat of life
Is taking them along with it
To where it wants to go.

385. Higher

Higher

In the view of the long line
I lived many times
And I was many people
On a chain
Made of light

If you look
From the place
With no time
You’ll see
That nothing ever happened

and yet
The sun keeps rising
Higher and higher.

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The healing process

Entries 1-58 show how I use the method of Intuition Through Art to heal myself from Peripheral Neuropathy.

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