Slowly, surely I stand and look at the cloud patterns on approach. Time patterns as a quiet fool sometimes, and I am the one who stirs the pot, watches the sky and cloaks my shoulders with shawl. Down spins the first leaf speckled with ochre and sienna, crimson and worm-hole.
Where to in these moments? Holding on to small little hands, we find that place of comfort. Soft, still and sweet, I too remember the familiar smell of wood burn, tart apples and hand-spun wool tight and pressed against a cheek with a glass of cold milk.
Little kisses from those who trust me with all they are.
Icons are moving their lips to smile.
I must admit, the movement of imminent goal of sharing my attempts of icon-writing with others quickens my blood. I want to get better. I want to find my way. And I am happy to share that journey with little hands grasping on to table-side, if that's what it takes.
Aaron's birthday will mark the delivery of eight or so of my icons to a gallery in Brattleboro, Vermont. To share, to mark a new phase in time in which to create.
Seraphine, the recent french film we saw last weekend, was an enormous encouragement to me--a beautiful and haunting portrait of a woman driven to create as an intimate and sacred love letter to the Other. A conversation with the divine, spoken through hand-made pigments ripped from the earth and other matter--distilled in a love and intimacy that channelled through her own unique brush. Tree of Paradise. Not without encouragement. Not without misunderstanding. Often and almost always alone and with interior conviction, and exterior semblance of a sort of madness. Who are we who create for the Creator? Holy fools?
I still fill with tears contemplating her grand gesture, wedding gown and bare feet trailing the cobblestones of her village, knocking on doors announcing the Feast. The here, now, always. Image bearers, the light of the Incarnation flooding it all. The mystery of the why spilling over canvas as blood on sacred ground--an echo to Love, a voice singing in the beauty and pain of life. The patterns of creation through fruit and leaf, limb and light. Colors that annunciate and speak of an intimate and most profound language.
Remember you are blest. See this film, spend time with her paintings, and kiss the crimson leaf you find at your feet.
