the road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding then revealing the way you should take, the road dropping away from you as if leaving you to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up, when you thought you would fall, and the way forward always in the end the way that you came, the way that you followed, the way that carried you into your future, that brought you to this place, no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you, no matter that it always had to break your heart along the way, the sense of having walked from far inside yourself out into the revelation, to have risked yourself for something that seemed to stand both inside you and far beyond you, that called you back in the end to the only road you could follow, walking as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice that by night, became a prayer for safe arrival…
excerpt from santiago from pilgrim: poems by david whyte [emphasis mine]
it is suggested to us a million times a day that our BODIES are PROJECTS. they aren’t. our lives are. our spirituality is. our relationships are. our work is. stop spending all day obsessing, cursing, perfecting your body like it’s all you’ve got to offer the world. your body is not your art, it’s your paintbrush. whether your paintbrush is a tall paintbrush or a thin paintbrush or a stocky paintbrush or a scratched up paintbrush is completely irrelevant.what is relevant is that YOU HAVE A PAINTBRUSH which can be used to transfer your insides onto the canvas of your life — where others can see it and be inspired and comforted by it.
it was because of his profound knowledge of painting that leonardo started so many things without finishing them; for he was convinced that his hands, for all their skill, could never perfectly express the subtle and wonderful ideas of his imagination.
- giorgio vasari, the lives of the most excellent painters, sculptors and architects, 1568. [emphasis mine]
earth ripples alive in her golden skin as wheat ripens under summer sun, pulses to fullness fattened by rain and wild airs. bronze rods of barley brushed by the weather, shimmer in fields of light as corn mother moves amongst us. her fertile body is swollen with grain, sheaf after sheaf—enough to bring bread to the whole planet, even to famine, if we work with the climate, tend our fields as holy places, share with those who lack as an act of Compassion. her belly is big with promise, with miracles, wonders, but our shadows stretch long on the harvest acres as we eat up the land. At the heart of the eleusinian mysteries lay a single grain of wheat—sun-energy so small, holding the future.
i am a hunter of beauty and i move slow and i keep eyes wide, every fiber of every muscle sensing all wonder and this is the thrill of the hunt and i could be an expert on the life full, the beauty meat the lurks in every moment.
damn, what happened? when i looked down there was a bee clinging to my running tights - stinging - that undeniable burn with chills. double damn. and then the deluge while trying to hail a taxi, with water up to my ankles. awesome. but it’s still a good day. somehow it is. and now the sun is out. everything changes - sometimes quickly. thank goodness for that. monday.