"Look for Nothing - See Everything"

It's been years since I've written morning pages. This morning was a great way to start again. When I set out on a walk with my dogs this morning I reminded myself to "look for nothing but see everything". I was struck by the beauty of a dilapidated mailbox with vines, dirt, and weeds encompassing it's existence.

During the morning pages the mailbox came out in my writing. It was a simple realization but a realization all the same. Artists really do see things in different ways. Other people would view the mailbox as imperfection and want to "fix it". All I could think of was what a beautiful piece of art I witnessed for the first time, although I passed this mailbox everyday. Organic and purposeful, it sat upon a decaying piece of wood which fed the grass, weeds and moss at the base. It stood not only to collect packages and envelopes but it also supported the twisting vines and perched birds.

We are all that mailbox in one way or another, purposeful, organic, not always pretty or new, and there's always someone who wants to fix us. Although not everyone will recognize the beauty we possess, we are a work of art.

Namaste,
Shannon

The Essence of Man

Beyond The Veil

Hidden by high collars, long skirts and hair; we are more than the image of purity. Goddesses within, we are exquisite beyond the veil. We are wild and yearning for the naked flesh of our thoughts to expose the truth of spirit.
-Shannon

Memories

I remember wading in streams

Quickly climbing trees

Fishing for dreams

Waiting for the breeze

Or maybe just a gentle wind

To carry me away

I remember waiting for tomorrow

Trying to forget today

Pounding down sorrow

Trying to mold the clay

Blowing pretty bubbles

To carry me away

I remember gazing at the stars

Wearing sweaters in the night

Talking gibberish to Mars

Waiting for the light

Of a sunlit day

To carry me away

I remember dancing in the sun

Walking barefoot on moss

Singing just for fun

Never recognizing loss

Hoping for a drenching rain

To carry me away

So You Ask About Me?

So you ask about me?

I’m West Virginia green; the color of mountain laurel and may apples…the whisper of rolling meadows and weeping willows. From umbrella magnolias to the carpeted moss beneath your naked feet, don’t you recognize me from childhood?

I’m the color of North Carolina, from dense tobacco fields to the shore of Emerald Isle. Potent as the smell of wild onions, I am that which calls your attention to a single blade of grass; you can breathe in my freshness after a mountain rain. I’m the color of home.

My name is Emerald, like the Kohala Coast on the island of Hawaii. I’m found in the shimmering and transparent, blue-green waters of Hanama Bay. The universe has transformed me from the vivid color of palm trees to the deep, rich green of a rain forest with the blink of your eye. Centuries old, I am the Banyan tree on Front Street in Lahaina.

Like the crystal, sparkling eye of a woman, I am the color of a priceless emerald. Making your life exciting and enviable is my pleasure.

My color exists in the mug holding your coffee reflecting scenes from outside your kitchen window. I give you contentment in everyday things.

Recognized as the color of wealth and riches (old and new) men have placed me upon their currency then fought and died over the power and possibilities I possess.

A collision of light and chlorophyll, I’m the color of life. With the shade of fertile ground, I scream with importance!

So you ask about me? I’m the comfort of things familiar, the remembrance of home, the eyes of a loved one, and your dreams of the future.

Have You Ever Looked, At Night, At The Sky?

Those who follow my blog know this was created as a way to experiment and combine my writings and paintings. This post is slightly different. The painting is inspired by a special person, Bill Barnes. So, instead of posting an essay that I have written, I'm sharing a poem written by one of the most influential people in my life. Bill was my uncle, physician, and friend. He was a skilled surgeon who never lost the curiosity of things beyond science. Tragically, he died too young. Below is a poem found locked in a safe, with the words "For My Family". One last thing he gave us to ponder...


Have you ever looked, at night, at the sky?

Have you ever looked with your mind not your eye?

Alone with your thoughts you strain and try

To see where they end, those dots in the sky

With all of your mind you try and try

To find those that still live and those that have died

But stop, you think, how can this be?

They do look the same, to you and to me

Is there no way to see, no wisdom to steal?

To know which is false, to see that which is real

Now look again, with me, at the sky

All those dark places, no dots in the sky

And yet beyond us, in a world that is real

Something, someone a glance will steal

At that same dark space that to us seemed so real

And there at the center of that void in the sky

There is a bright light, as seen by their eye

And so to my family, as our lives go by

Think of me as that light somewhere in the sky

I will always be with you, if only you try

And look with your mind and not with your eye

For your mind it can travel through that void that is black

Then stop where it wants, turn around and look back

And there at the center of that which was black

That light once thought gone now has come back

I wonder if life, like those dots in the sky

Can be understood, by you; by I?

Does it really have a beginning and then just pass by?

Or is it like the stars that we see in night’s sky

Forever visible when love is your eye

Have you ever looked, at night, at the sky?

Have you ever looked with your mind not your eye?

Reflections

When was the last time you paid attention to detail? How often are we so caught up in own world of self-design that we neglect to see the detail in our own truths or other worlds spinning around us?

Today, while I was searching the furthest recesses of a dark bureau drawer, my fingers came across the cold, etched surface of my silver compact. It was a Christmas gift from my mother-in-law, as I remember. An intricately carved silver mirror, a treasure only women can appreciate. The type of sentimental trinket you seldom use but appreciate for the detail and simplicity all in the same moment.

Mirrors are timepieces of our very existence, like journal entries, I suppose. We log-in to check our progress and record our evolving journey through this life, chronicling our voyage from birth with the honesty of a trusted confident. As a trusted friend they show us our true nature, often seen without makeup or clothing, we can hide nothing from them.

My fondness of mirrors has changed with the decades. As an infant I could have stared at the face reflected back at me, recognizing my image as curiously as I did that of my parents. It was a thrill that must have compared with finding my toes for the first time. Trying to recall the coos and giggles in a life full of discovery, never realizing the lessons of each breakthrough.

As a child, my senses were in overdrive, experiencing as much as physically possible. I paid little attention to my physical appearance. There was too much to witness. I lived for the moment, sampling as much of life's pie as my senses would allow. Mirrors were never extremely important in youth.

As an adolescent, I stared in repugnance at the face and body I no longer recognized as my own. I remember the agony of my first sign of acne or the breasts I couldn't imagine would fill my blouse. Can't you recall the first time you were aware of your physical presence?

"Mom, what am I supposed to do about these," I pointed at my chest, half proud while the other half terrified, standing face to face with my naked body in the mirror. "How will I ever compete in track again," I whispered out-loud, as my mother laughed her way to the telephone to share my discovery with her friends. She was taking such pleasure at the changing details of my life and body.

In my twenties, I grew more comfortable with the images of self. The breasts, which were once nuisance, are now part of my identification. My stride was effortless and full of confidence. I was pleased with the sassy curve of my waist, the simple freshness of my face and the color I had chosen for my hair. Reflections were welcome gauges of my compatibility with those around me.

During my thirties, the details of my image became more vivid. I no longer held the youthful beauty I once did, but I held wisdom and compassion I never felt possible. No longer did I look at my reflection without absorbing the peripheral view of the world around me. I stopped to witness the crisp, white purity of the wall beyond my shoulder, the wind gently caressing the curtain to my side, and the fingerprints my son left just hours before.

Now in my forties, I am comfortable with who I am. While peering into the mirror, I notice the barely visible lines running from the corners of my eyes, realizing they are from years of laughter watching my children grow. The furrow in my brow, touch of gray in my hair, and the hint of color in my cheeks, all speak of where I am at this very moment. I am an ever-changing, ever-present being on a journey filled with detail. Aren't we the poetry of life?

Mirrors reflect the verses we have written, neither prophesizing nor revisiting. They can only reflect our present truth.