It’s become a bit like being in my own reality TV show, this process of getting paintings out the door. The day has just passed that I’d targeted as my deadline, barring a major dharmic intervention. I will say that I have made great progress, and these two huge impossibles are very close to being their actual selves. And out my door.
But there was a major dharmic intervention on Sunday – one that snuck up on me like a viper and bit me so subtly I didn’t realize it until later when I felt myself go into shock. I kept painting, but in fact I was at full stop.
To back up and provide some clarity, I’ve found a description of dharma that fits here,
“Dharma means the intrinsic nature of a thing. Just like the dharma of sugar is sweetness and the dharma of water is wetness. The dharma of the living being is to render service to God….”
(my apologies, this is not sourced properly in the Urban Dictionary where I found it, so I can’t tell you which guru originally said it)
In my world then, a dharmic intervention is an unexpected event that hits you on all levels – emotional, physical, psychological, professional, personal (insert others of your choice) and shocks you enough that veils you’d never known were there are ripped away to reveal some Home Truths – the difficult ones. In these instances there’s no avoiding or denying whatever has become crystal clear. It’s impossible NOT to have a new perspective about what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.
So to translate: I thought I was painting about something incredibly deep and wise and well-crafted, from a place of experienced and well-honed detatchment. Something big and unexpected happened, and because of it I now know the paintings are about something else entirely. In a way, they’ve been painting me.
So, another week will do it, I think. I begin an intense course of study today, and every evening is also booked with rehearsals. But I don’t need that much sleep…..
A fog-laden wind sifts through tree boughs to the northwest. Into my left ear the presto drip of snowmelt on metal roof is punctuated by a random slide, thunk of heavier stuff pulled to ground. On my lap, the steady, thundering purr of kitten.
The dark outside is thick with visible air, like stirred winter stew. It feels almost balmy after these minus 29 degree days so I’m tempted to stay out… but no. To inside, under thick blankets. To listen, not look.
And here, like a gift, like a soul’s massage, is the heavy rain.
It’s been travel travel for me these past weeks, through the bustling silence of January 2013. Not what I had expected. The first month of the year in this place has always had the sensibility of a well-caught breath. For me it’s always held the promise of a month of stacked, not linear time – so that ‘was’, ‘is’ and ‘will be’ are all in the same moment. This makes it oh so much easier to find and feel the “Ah. Yes” – the insight that will become the engine for the following months and years.
Oddly enough – even amid the schedule and the travel and the deadlines, the all-nighters, the practise and the rehearsals, the cover letters and the interviews, the Wagner, the B&B and the Beethoven, this has still happened. There is clarity even in this fog of winter stew, and I feel quite deeply certain about a few key things.
KG, I need an axe song – can we talk? L, I need a couple of songs from you too. Owen Sound – we need to make good music education available to every kid in this place – and soon. I’m not kidding about this – in another well-identified post I will gather links and information to illustrate beyond any doubt what is possible here. To the women of #IdleNoMore – I get it. Thank you for opening a place where we can all talk and heal together. G, I get where we’re going, and it’s good. T, thanks & good luck with the simplification project. F, L – courage. Darlin D – well done.