Today I was supposed to paint. I scraped my palette and received an invitation to have breakfast and go hiking with a couple of dear friends. I went along. It was such a beautiful drive up to Hessie Trail, a little ways outside of Nederland. My friends brought their dogs, Rudi and Spot. They were very excited to go hiking too. It's been so long since I've hiked. The air was scented with warm pine. The sun down in Boulder was a glaring 95 degrees but up on the trail it had dropped to a perfect 76 degrees Farenheit. The trail curved gently around the foothills and brought us to a waterfall. We left the trail to seat ourselves on boulders overlooking the falls. Bronze boulders as large as trucks in precarious poses as if in suspended animation of tumbling were dressed with white, rivulets of lace. The decision to go hiking was sealed after breakfast and I was originally wearing a long skirt, so Molly lent me a set of spandex shorts, the sort of which I haven't worn since about the age of 13. Normally I don't show this much of my legs and it left me feeling slightly self conscious, but I must admit they were very comfortable for the context in which I was employing them.
I was hypnotized by the moving water. I said to Dan and Molly, "It's so great to be alive." Trite words, but sincere.
I ran my hands over the tender needles of a young evergreen that tenaciously took root on top of the boulder I sat on, in what looked like a shovel's worth of earth caught in a dip. I felt the rough surface of the boulder and the chartreuse lichen, the fallen dried needles. It filled my senses with wonder. Molly offered me a very ripe peach from the cooler. It was so soft it buckled in my fingers. As my teeth broke the skin, the peach nectar flowed down my chin and as I drank it, it cooled the inside of my throat. I feel so blessed that I am allowed to experience such sensuousness in my version of existence. I guess it's common for painters to occupy themselves with and focus on relating the sensuous in their work, perhaps because of the tactile nature of hand made artwork, ceramics for example. Today, on the trail, I decided that I don't exist. The I is a fiction. The I is really everything. Existence is actually oneness but we are a delusional, schizophrenic, narcissistic oneness. Once while on the pilgrimage to Italy, I was listening to my sister talk and I let go of my ego, the sense of boundary between the self and everything else and suddenly I felt a strong oneness with her. My perception spread outside of my body and everything became like a mirror to my spirit. It lasted only a minute.
I experimented with this while I was walking through the woods today admiring all the tree people, bird people, rock people, dog people, all the different versions of the Is or Am. It created a sense of loneliness, but perhaps the Is or Am is too infinite to be confined to one version of itself and that's why there are so many. In this way, the Is or Am can love itself by loving those perceived to be external selves, but when the Is/Am is being vain and selfish and thinking only of its loneliness, the love diminishes.
I was hypnotized by the moving water. I said to Dan and Molly, "It's so great to be alive." Trite words, but sincere.
I ran my hands over the tender needles of a young evergreen that tenaciously took root on top of the boulder I sat on, in what looked like a shovel's worth of earth caught in a dip. I felt the rough surface of the boulder and the chartreuse lichen, the fallen dried needles. It filled my senses with wonder. Molly offered me a very ripe peach from the cooler. It was so soft it buckled in my fingers. As my teeth broke the skin, the peach nectar flowed down my chin and as I drank it, it cooled the inside of my throat. I feel so blessed that I am allowed to experience such sensuousness in my version of existence. I guess it's common for painters to occupy themselves with and focus on relating the sensuous in their work, perhaps because of the tactile nature of hand made artwork, ceramics for example. Today, on the trail, I decided that I don't exist. The I is a fiction. The I is really everything. Existence is actually oneness but we are a delusional, schizophrenic, narcissistic oneness. Once while on the pilgrimage to Italy, I was listening to my sister talk and I let go of my ego, the sense of boundary between the self and everything else and suddenly I felt a strong oneness with her. My perception spread outside of my body and everything became like a mirror to my spirit. It lasted only a minute.
I experimented with this while I was walking through the woods today admiring all the tree people, bird people, rock people, dog people, all the different versions of the Is or Am. It created a sense of loneliness, but perhaps the Is or Am is too infinite to be confined to one version of itself and that's why there are so many. In this way, the Is or Am can love itself by loving those perceived to be external selves, but when the Is/Am is being vain and selfish and thinking only of its loneliness, the love diminishes.
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| Crucified Earth I |
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| Crucified Earth II |
