Healing and growth through intuitive art
The parts of the head
And shoulders
Spread to all the wrong places
As if they were kids
In a school intermission
Instead of being controlled
By the rules
They freely followed
Their hearts
As a result
Harmony settled in
In which
Effortlessly
All individual whims together
Became the complete expression
Of the one.
The queen had a party
The guests drank and talked
Around the table
But I wanted to sleep
So she made a bed for me
Nearby
I sank in
Among the big pillows
The words of a book
Appeared
And I read them in my sleep
Nerve pain woke me up
Where in the book was I?
I left with all the guests
Not before
I saw the queen
Getting into that same bed
Saying:
How nice that it is warm
I let the others go
And came back to fetch my shoes
But the royal cat attacked me twice
And fell on its back
Like a rag
I gave up
I laughed
The dream of my life was lying broken
On the floor
And light was coming
Through the cracks.
At first
The red and the green
Fought with each other
And each of them was pure
Then the grey opinion said
That they were bad
And had to be hidden
From the public
Parts of them
As is always the case
Showed up
Anyway
Unstoppable
And right
But not any more
Pure and innocent
Then from fighting with the grey
The yellow lines appeared
And taking middle stage
They are screaming in our face
The yellow lines are what
In human terms
Is called
Pain.
The pilot is still hot
From life
Memories
Scratch him like stars
But the fields grow dark
The sun gets caught in a barn
The wheat stalks lower
Their heads
And as the pilot still flies
Through the dust of the world
The lakes underneath
Go deep to no bottom.
My friend told me he is getting ready to die, and he is not afraid.
As long as he lives, he said, he does what he likes to do.
I placed it in my mouth, as you do with unknown food, waiting for the taste to show up.
I did the painting that you have here, not knowing what I do, as is always the case, except for being loyal to my sense of beauty.
Then I wrote the words that came.
The mind creates magnetic fields
Within what do they live?
They live in the truth
The truth is everywhere
And it is the only thing
That cannot be destructed
Therefore
It is not a thing
Trees grow from the earth
They eat the earth and drink water
They soak the sun
They breath the air
Like us
The earth and water are
The sun is
The air is
Products of the ancient mind
And are influenced by my own
Current mind
My mind
Is a traveling choice maker in infinity
Using the old truth
As clay
To be shaped with imagination
Hey
Everything is me!
There was some noise in his mind
He saw something
He read
About a man
Ancient drawings
And faces
And there was the pain
The lack of sleep
The struggle
He turned to peace
And out of nowhere
From far and from close
Softly touching
Orbs of air
Or softer than that
Came
He closed his eyes
And they organized
Themselves
Based on his love
To a new
Original thought.
Birds can fly
They are not afraid of heights
A bough
Is a home for them
Sometimes they would fight
for a good one
Then they’d sleep
Almost standing
Birds start to sing
Even before the sun arrives
Birds are soft
And hard
And I
What is hard and what is soft
In me?
What am I afraid of?
What will my dreams be like
If I have to keep my balance
At night?
Will I sing
In the morning?
When I was very young, there were geckos on the screens of the windows in my room, hunting flies and moths. And beyond the screen birds were standing on the windowsills. Then they would fly to the trees that surrounded the house.
In the evenings many birds would fight for the good boughs, making a huge noise. Then they’d settle down and sleep, sitting on their folded legs that held on to the thin branches. They did not have homework to do. I loved their boldness as they peeked into my room, with the excitement of having just flown still alive in them.
Today, when I close my eyes and imagine what a good life is for me, I see myself flying above the landscape, almost like the birds, but I flap less with my hands. I just have to think forward and I fly. And when I settle on a bough, at the top of the tallest tree, I do not shout. There is nothing to fight for. The world comes to me.
The mountain range is dreaming
It throws little lakes around
And casts reflections
In ochre and purple
When the sun goes down
To meet the mountains
The mountains cry
To the sky
And the other little mountain
Alone at the side
Oh,
Is in awe
The pain in my feet is hard to take. The body does not like it. The subconscious thinks it is terrible and something must be done immediately. I sit on the bed and place the more hurting foot over the other foot. I put my two palms on two different places between the knee and the pelvis. I want to feel both palms, as they touch the leg, at the same time. Not to move my attention from one to the other. Together. It is impossible to do with effort. I know already. So I relax as much as I can. I tell myself: Go empty. Go empty. Empty. I give away thoughts and worries. I feel calm for a moment. The pain goes crazy but for just a moment There is calm. In that moment the experience of the two palms touching in their different spots comes to me. It is not me chasing after the experience. It comes to me. It does not come to the mind but to the heart.
I stay in the experience. Within the environment of crazy pain, there is an area of peace, in which the experience of two separate hands touching two different places on the leg somehow continues to exist. I leave my attention there. I keep being careful not to make an effort. I just tune into experiencing the two touches. And the calm starts to grow.
Then there is a relaxation of the whole body. After some time the pain fades out from the foot that hurts more. Now it moves to the other foot and I continue. This is a healing state.
Sometimes the peace grows and I feel that I am the peace. Then the event of the pain in the body looks like an interesting event in eternity. And it is as if I am the little mountain at the side.
All the questions that we have
Lead us to one final question
And all the power that our questions have
Comes from leading us to this
The question is: Who am I?
Or what am I?
And there is no answer to this question
Because we are the freedom
To be as we wish
Or as our heart yearns
And it is, in the end,
To be ourselves.
My old brother sits in the room of our childhood
The trees in the yard
Move slightly in the wind
Inside of his body
The clouds, one big one small
Throw a ball between them
A picture that he made one summer
Still hangs
And every step that he took
Upon the reddish earth of the village
Has left a clear imaginary mark
In the infinity that he is.
