Coming Home
The acres of birch and spruce beyond the cabin walls quickly reclaimed the quietude as our conversation rose and fell like a tiny ship floating on the forest sea. The silence was more than the simple absence of sound; it was an actual presence lying upstream of sound. And when words broke the stillness, they soon receded into the background.
Everything Makes a Difference
It’s interesting how we can sometimes be granted a direct perception announcing the journey to come – as if we’re allowed a sneak preview because we’re destined to miss its significance and travel the full road anyway. It’s a tantalizing taste allowed to us by the innocence of youth and the eternal proximity of truth, setting the stage for the drama of forgetfulness about to begin.
Two Mile Cabin
The first snow arrived just as I was putting the finishing touches on the roof. I stopped and sat in the cabin – yet without solid walls – with a tremendous sense of anticipation. I had made my place – a shelter from the storm. It was with a growing excitement that I faced the prospect of a winter alone in this home of my own making so far from the civilized world.
Benediction
It was as if my complete immersion in this ancient landscape had finally answered the great unspoken question I’d been carrying. And that answer now lay everywhere – in the breeze whistling through the tops of the sentry-like spruce, in the heart-stopping blaze of the late sun folding the forest into its dying embrace, in the exaltation my body felt as it breathed hard in the cold air along the snowy path home.
Recognition
I was being inexorably drawn into a world that was unexpected and foreign, yet somehow intimately familiar. A secret alliance was being formed as if all the critical ingredients were assembled at this time and place to create a wholly new direction and purpose for my life.
Entering the Stream
One person would be blocked, frozen in front of his painting, unable to proceed. Someone else would be touching an emotional place, and a perimeter of tenderness would be evident in that corner, giving a respectful berth so as not to disturb the poignancy of the moment.
Who’s Painting This Painting?
An experience like this has the potential to alter the fundamental assumption of ourselves as prime mover. Where do we hang our hat in a process where our presence seems necessary, yet any control superfluous?
The Way Out is In.
‘The way out is in’, I’ll often intone to someone who’s in a painting crisis. I know on one hand they’re in difficulty and want out. So, it appeals on that level. But it’s actually a koan of sorts, because you can’t really go in if you’re wanting out.
