Healing and growth through intuitive art
Red
That day
The body was made
Of dry twigs.
It walked across the
Blue mountain ridge.
But the ridge was not
In this world.
It belonged to a place
Where meteorites
Fall in the white sky.
The body took
Two clouds of dust
With it
And its heart beat
Red, red and red.
Drowning
Like foam
Like sticky spider web
The character
Wraps itself around
His true nature
Afraid
that he will drown
Inside the endless sea
Of who he is.
Not even this
Veils
In the shape
Of a cliff
Or like a sky rearranged
And lights
That shine
Between the silence
And what is
Not even this
Soft clouds
Open up like wings
To wake up
The little houses
That are held
By the weave of the world.
It is time, they say,
To cross the bridge
Near the place
Where the sun ends the day
To a place
That you do not
Yet know.
There is no house
The sky came
From all directions
With little lights
To celebrate
The structure that you made
Around your house
To keep and to repair it.
The structure moves,
It grows, it knows..
But look!
There is no house inside.
Just sky.
The real
That is also inner
Is playing with me.
The creatures of the world
Come to sit on the tree
To look at the moons
As they move.
It is done
By the hand
The head
And the heart.
And they are nothing but
Movements
Of the real.
So the real
Is playing with the real
To see the real
Playing.
The sky came
From all directions
With little lights
To celebrate
The structure that you made
Around your house
To keep and to repair it.
The structure moves,
It grows
It knows..
But look!
There is no house inside,
Just sky.
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.
It used to be a mountain
Full of rocks
And now it is a dream
That dreams itself
To be.
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?
intuitiveflow 