Michaelmas watercolor painting by Liane Collot d'Herbois, 1965
It is Michealmas season once more, and the fire
on the leaves, as they valiantly cling to their branches before submitting to
the inevitable descend into decay, reminds me that I too will fall into the
darknessn of matter in time. But as the leaves drop off their life
line and the trunks stand cold and barren, I, on the other hand, turn from the
glory of nature and look into a world of color, form and spirit, of hope and
rebirth, every time I stand before canvas or paper, with paint or pastel in
hand, and create a new, messages from another world. Where Light, color
and darkness move in a timeless dance of tension and dynamic, one giving way to
the other until the end result images a resolution that mirrors the conversation
between myself and beings of a higher sphere.
It is a time to listen, to hear the exhale of Nature as she
breathes a long slow sigh to the passing of another season of passion and fury.
The skin on my face and arms tingles to feel the cold autumn air, damp with
death and decay in all its sweet darkness. It IS beautiful. I breathe it
in slow and deep, letting it fill my lungs with its passing. I close my eyes
and whisper a pray of gratitude to Gods' green earth for allowing me to experience
and share another changing season of her dynamic bounty. All death is a
transition from one form to another and I hold no exception to this rule of
law. Only, I am aware of it, and in that awakening I seek an inner peace and
quiet stillness wherein I hope to find the seeds of rebirth, within and
without. Whispers of inspiration tease me to find the inner path of
realization. Of creation not found on the surface of things but living
inside their shells, animating them from the source of all life.
It is Love. Out of her unfathomable depth and mystery, out
of her caressing darkness she kisses my soul with a warmth and tenderness few
can match. There is no need for fear here, only patience is requested. As my
fumbling light wiggles its way through her serene mystery she asks me to steady
my beam upon her countenance so as not to distort the gift she offers.
The future always comes out of Love, it is only that I lack understanding.
My light is cold and splintered then. Lacking the warmth of deeper streams
of knowledge, I retreat to the surface where death and decay take stage and
play out their time bound theatrics. This is the realm of the dragon, of the
unredeemable confusion of physical experience. there is no mystery here, on the
surface of things. The questions are meager and the answers feeble. They
neither feed my soul nor strengthen my spirit. In this light I am time bound
and destitute, a cancer eating away at my skin and bones. But in the changing
of her seasons, in the nuance of her wardrobe, Nature always offers a glimpse
into the mystery of her true being. Only, we must be available to her
seduction, her perfume and the tenor of her song. We must dance with her, learn
her steps and follow her lead. It is only in this fashion that I can redeem the
shadow of her many forms and balance the scales of her reality. Of my reality.
The fire on the falling leaf must be matched by the rise of the fire in my
spirit. In this there is resurrection, there is hope and there is Love.
Happy Michealmas!
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