SOURCE

How ever we define the complexities of being alive it always comes down to a sense of being divided from who we once we were & who we are. Being born, ironically, is a taking leave... a dying as it were. Dying is an entering... a returning... a being born. How do we reconcile the division of our divine selves from the loving awareness that created & creates, not only us, but all that is? I recognize in glimpses of recollection... when the fog of amnesia is not upon me... that there is no division. I am at the centre always. The Source emanates... radiates eternally. It includes all the facets, all the fractals. It expands ever-outward, kaleidoscopes ever-inward from the centre. My fellow sentient being: walk the labyrinth with me, inward, spiraling, circling, orbiting to the centre. To the source.

GRID

The understanding of the Divinity of the universe comes to me through the grids of science. If nature is  circular, spiral , spherical; a grid is an abstract, linear construct used to delineate the extent of the ever-unfolding beauty. Try to get your head around the concept of a field... a gravitational field... a geo-magnetic field. A field is a potential... a possibility... the Taoistic ‘non-being’... not “nothing”... but an emptiness that contains influence once entered....everything in gestation, in embryonic form. The mind... my mind in fact is nothing more than the field of my consciousness. The Universe is the Mind of the Creator... a field on which every thing, like a sudden thought in my day’s ponderings, comes into being.

NEGATIVE SPACE

 In drawing we learn to define the object of our vision by what it is not. In the Tao I never know whether it is the Jar that holds the water or the water that fills the Jar. Is it the dancer that dances the dance, or the dance that defines the dancer dancing? I am drawn to the shadows... to the deep space between the stars. How do I know who I am except by learning what I am not? Being.... Not-being. Night followed by day. As an artist I create the object of my vision in all its beauty or I give shape to the shadows... the dark spaces that in the contrast delineate the pattern that needs to come into being. 

SPIRAL

Hear what the white cat speaks.
See what the black cat sees.
But know what the orange cat knows.
One then / one now / one.... forever one.

Close your eyes & all you see is green...
A sea of green... the air a trillium breathes...
Emerald light... a meadow pond in May...
The aloe dream of seedlings’ winter day.

Where are we from? Who are we? 
We have been sent. We mean to heal.
& we are with you. We are here.
We have been sent. We are here. 

There’s a tree at the spiral’s stillest centre.
It’s at the end, the start, it’s where we enter.
Walk & walk... each step’s a breathless breath.
Breathe the labyrinth... slow the starlit path.

Hear what the white cat speaks
See what the black cat sees
But know what the orange cat knows
One then / one now / one.... forever one 

LABYRINTH

My spiritual mentor Michael lives in a place of serenity. On his farm in the grasslands of Saskatchewan he has mapped out a Cretan labyrinth with field stones. Medieval monks walked such a labyrinth at Chartres, between masses, deep in meditation. Breath comes into rhythm with step. Time slows. The spiral leads to the centre.  A tree grows at the heart of the labyrinth. There is a simple bench to sit on. Facing west. The afternoon sun sinks toward the horizon. The meadowlarks  & magpies call out in the wolf willow. In our inner selves there lies such a spiral. Walk inwards with your being. The centre is a place of eternal stillness. Calm. Silent. The Source. Be there. 

SHE

 Who is she? I know, like me, you have seen her. She stands just beyond the far tree in the rain-fall forest, in a gown the colour of mist. She waits behind the pillar in the arcade,  patient. She dresses in a shawl of snow & drifts between the tall banks  in the winter fields. She swims up to you in your boat & you are sure you can see her down below the golden green.  You looked into her eyes the moment you were born & then for the next year & more. She whispers in your ear the moment you fall asleep & in the moment just before you awaken. She contains all mystery but she is calm & serene as the light of an April dawn. She is older than the Creator. She knows you for who you truly are.  You belong. Beloved.

THE NINE

I have endeavoured in several art forms in my brief sojourn here on the third rock from the star Sol. Music, poetry, painting, writing. What I have come to realize is that anything of value that I arrive at as an artist comes to me as a gift. I am the conduit. The vessel. The medium. My role is to ready myself... to discipline my skills to the highest level so that when the inspiration comes I am ready. I venerate the muses.... all nine of them. It is they who have on occasion chosen me. Lord knows, many times they do not come through to me. I offer myself in sacrifice. I pay the highest respect. The artistic process is sacred. My muse is very shy... very fragile... & very jealous. She has grey eyes & when she chooses to come to me. to speak through me, the world around me becomes clear as mountain spring water.