
In the evenings we gather
Near the tree
We sit in a circle
And listen to the stories
That the tree tells
Nobody talks
And we all cry
Because we love the stories
So much
And we love the way
It feels as if
Every story
Has its roots
In nothing.
Healing and growth through intuitive art

The bird wants to fly
On her own
She slowly disconnects
From where she stands
Wanting to fly
Takes its energy
From the sun
And it is light
Hesitation
To leave the earth
Is from the fear
And it is heavy
For many years
It seemed that
She has flown
And stayed
It took a lifetime
To slowly be
More airborne
Than earthbound
One
Lifetime
Which is
No time at all.

I had to carefully compose again after it looked as if I had finished it already.
There was a lot to add. It is so easy with this technique.
And I fixed it. Now it appeals to me. I made it to appeal to me.
When I think what is new about my late paintings, it is that they are more subtle. There is a sense of joy that bubbles up in them. This sense of joy was in my paintings before too. But the feeling was that it had to struggle more in order to express itself. It was beautiful that it did, and there was a sense of drama in every one of those joy expressions.
Now it feels that the joy is comfortable and playful. It does not struggle in order to be.
The dark past is still in the painting. It looks darker than in previous paintings, but it also looks old, weak, dilapidated.
I remember the technique that I developed in healing from far, when I practiced with the group Consciousness Research Institute. I would create a huge dome around myself, full of good energy. Then I’d bring the person to be healed into the dome, to be there with me.
And I would feel the discomfort of having with me in the space of the dome someone whose energy did not match with mine. (Just as the pain in this moment is such energy that does not match mine). And I would let this strange energy be a part of me without resistance. Just like having something in your pocket that you don’t necessarily feel comfortable with, but it is there. So you just get familiar with the feeling of it being there, and you go on with the business of life. Going on being, that now includes this uncomfortable feeling. You let it be until it is a part of you that does not stand out any more. It is not uncomfortable any more, but itself as it is.
Strange how difficult it is to explain this and how natural, spontaneous and simple it was to do it.
So now it starts to feel to me that I am, at last, at this very stage with my past.
I love the little boy who I was, who struggled so hard, with so much pain and fear, and I can’t but admire how courageous he was, how good hearted.
I love him dearly.
And at the same time I get less and less impressed by the traumatic influence of that time. The trauma can be seen in the art. But the joy grows as an expression of freedom. Like a beautiful bird that was caged in darkness and, as it comes out of it, grows and becomes the whole scene.
There are delicate structures that may represent the way I explained things to myself, and they are very fragile. They can fall apart easily or change into something else. And in a way they are irrelevant to the joy.
Joy is the original state. Thinking is a game, happening inside of joy and sometimes becoming too heavy and obscures the joy that it has come from.
So it is a good thing that the thinking, as it appears in the art, has become lighter and less obscuring.
Look at the dark blue and violet shapes at the bottom right. Don’t they look like old remnants of a war that has ended? Do you feel the relief of being joy that is free from those remnants, a joy that does not struggle to be?
I’d say it is still quite moderate. It is just taking stock of the fact it is here. The child has stopped crying and now is becoming interested in everything.

A garden grows
At the top of the soil
With a touch of sadness
To it
A lonely soul
Is leaving
Hoping to have it better
In another place
There is gold in the earth
And next to it
A hidden wound
A flood of sadness
And the body of a man
He is resting now
Near water and green
He is dreaming
Of a life that he could have
If he managed to go up
To the open air
Passing the blood
And the tendency of history
To pull us down
Against our will
In the open air
Our garden grows
Married
To a trauma
But we know
Don’t we
That every morsel of this scene
Is made of gold
We wipe our golden tears
With wonder.

I want to be a tree
But I am not sure
Which tree
I want to be
And I’m not sure
What the conditions are
In the place where I’ll stand
Is it very windy there?
Is there competition for the food?
Will the goats eat my bark?
Will the other trees be friendly
And will they understand
That I have to be
This certain way
Because of how my childhood went?
But wait
Maybe I can be a tree
From another childhood?
My mother stood very tall
Or ran wildly in the fields
My father traveled in an air balloon
My brother played
In coloring the clouds
And I knew
That everything is possible
Right from the beginning?

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 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!