All the colors stand around me, in bottles, tubes and pencils. They are looking quietly at what I do. What will I say? They are my audience now.
I love them. They can do infinite things. They do not really look. I know. It is the whole who looks. The infinite listening-with-the-heart. The heart-of-listening. His name is I.
When the light of seeing is bright and strong, everything that is non-transparent burns into non-existence. Its energy is left with no job. It gives itself back to be used for creation.
The name of the creator is I too.
It seems the light in the middle of the painting (the yellow and orange) is marred. It has been hit on the head.
Darkness (on the left) makes a threat. But the little child-who-flies is not afraid. He flies into the darkness to repair his past. He will find his love that he rejected in those old times. It is like the soul-retrieval that shamans do.
The goodness and the freedom-filled-joy, which is the lost part of him, will be found where it went to hide when it was not permitted to act in the world. It will be invited back and respected, loved, accepted, joined.
Again the lines tell the stories. The color shapes tell the emotions. The composition says that all is blessed, with all its tiniest details.
The white always looks with endless love and curiosity, with awe, with pride and marvel.
There is confusion there too, on the right, projecting a yes-no feeling.
Everything is okay.
The big yellow mother would like to say: Be careful!
But she knows that daring requires love and trust, and not carefulness. So she does not say a word. She admires her child.
Yesterday in the morning I sat on the window seat and meditated. With all the lack of sleep that I collected, because of the pain, I fell asleep. I lost my balance and fell. I opened my eyes in the middle of the fall and saw the world turning around. But I was still asleep when my forehead hit the floor.
Then I woke up.
I felt fear and this conjured up memories from an event in my childhood, that now I saw more fully than before. Doors that were closed before, opened.
Fear cannot come if there is no story behind it. Falling cannot happen without a belief or a few beliefs that invite it. I know this is strange for some.
After some time I did this painting.