I sit with the Staghorn Fern and listen to it sing to the morning sun.
Shadows of the remains of darkness make me know the magic of light.
I am always “doing”: working and moving and living a creative life. Now, during these “not-doing” moments, I question why I create art. To what end? I was told by my father to work at what I love and life will be rich. That has been true. (Rich inside, but at times barely surviving. Mostly, making just enough to pay the bills.)
Such are the thoughts that swirl around in my head during this quiet time. While I am “not-doing”, I witnessed the morning’s light as it passed through the winged seeds still hanging on the branches of a Box Elder. A light breeze makes them “talk”.
I watch and note shadows and light as they relate to each other. Fodder for a painting, this dance of light.
While not-doing, I feel a peace settle in. Time passes slower.
I now consider my physical presence in the space I occupy. How does my occupation in this space effect the world? How am I living? Is the energy I put out good?
I notice that now, the sun is completely bathing the interior of my house. I turn my body toward it like a solar collector and let the light in. It fills the gaps and cracks, warming my spirit.
I have realized that we, as sentient, spiritual beings, are mostly functioning at a tiny fraction of what we are capable of.
Is it crazy to think that we might listen to what the trees speak of?
Sense. Sensing. Sentience.
Can we know some of what happens when our bodies die? What happens to the light inside us that is spirit?
As I take this time to “not-do”, I am feeding a mindfulness that cements my place here.
Now, I will go and paint.