Becoming unravelings

...All material things are becoming unravelings from an inner core of substantial luminescence... apples, trees, rocks, birds, sky, my husband.

Patterns. Signs. Yearnings. Understanding. Hope.

I love this image of two clown lovers walking in the night.

I wish i could use my tongue better. I fall so short in spoken word. The same way i yearn and struggle for the subtlety of color and line through my brush that i see in my mind's eye, I try to speak with certain things but fail at arriving. I fail and become misunderstood. I frustrate. Words. But it is not only words. It is my lack of understanding, of remembering, of becoming. It is then the realization that i am culpable for this that i sink. Maybe i shall not fly, but i would like to walk or at least climb. Not handicapped. Whole and strong. Able to walk in the dark even when the light of the moon is hidden and in the moments where the path deviates or even becomes lost.

But the patterns are there. Patterns of love growing and shifting and blowing and moving. And certain ones remain as powerful signposts. Even when incubated for years and minutes suspended and then realized at its appropriate moment. Reminders. Things to grasp onto as we hurdle through space. Why is the past of our lives and the dreamed dream relegated to the same island once it has been?

After Aaron and i married, we went to Montreal to spend some alone time in marking the event. And the visit to the arboretum has been visiting me much lately. The day itself cloudy with light pockets bursting through--the air quality cold but warm at the same time. Spring. Bulbs were beginning to emerge out of the ground, tree buds blossoming. We didn't know where we were going and simply discovered the way we were to take. What stays with me most is that in the walking that seemed as if we were lost in the wild we would then come upon the most beautiful gardens. There was the Chinese and Asian garden and entering into the ancient Chinese house on a small island in the center of a pond next to a beautiful waterfall. And inside the house a woman was playing the harp. More walking along indistinct paths to emerge in the rose garden that was shaped like a labyrinth. Then a hyacinth field. Much walking for a long time in the extraordinary ordinary. Entering in then to a house that held the corpse of an ancient tree so you could lovingly touch its concentric circles. Again long walking and then descending into the house of insects like a cave--all i remember are all the lovely butterflies pinned open--miniature saints lined up in a row. Beautiful skins that once lifted light. And one's own strange feeling of lift when leaving back into a world we are only passing through. This distinct sojourn at the arboretum was a gift--our journey has unknown walking like the waiting of entering into the moments of light. Transcending the wild. bridging the night. The hoping then arriving. Like riding Peleshian's train. Everything pointing to the end. And we hurdle quickly there. Returning to the Garden.

The patterns remain. Like the prototype. Love caught within the pattern. Given in the pattern.

Someday i shall speak and be understood.
Someday i shall understand and hear.
Now, I and we shall strive for inner luminescence like foxfire from decaying wood.

Clowns lovers in the night. Holding hands.