This is personally a very busy time for me and my family, but I’ve finished the painting I’ve been working on for several weeks. I hope you find it intriguing and inspiring. The prose/poem below that accompanies it explains some of the symbolism. Some of! What is she saying to you?
I will be away for about a week, learning again from Dr. Estes, and therefore away from my computer. I’ll respond to any comments when I get back.
Compassion’s Companion: Becoming Whole, Becoming Holy
I recognize you, dear three eyed mystery.
You’ve visited me since I was a teenager first exploring
the quiet books that invited me into contemplative depths.
Your third eye travels through time and space
noticing, watching, understanding — from an inclusive view
offering unending compassion.
You’ve seen much, you ancient of days.
Your aged face still, always, beautiful.
Your regal shawl is reminiscent of the Blessed Mother’s mantle
offering shelter, respite, prayerfulness,
its purple mix of passionate red and introspective blue threaded with gold.
Gold — the treasure, the divine in the mundane.
You hold golden seeds, are sheltered by infinite seeds within seeds,
this world’s memorandum of the life-death-life cycle in all,
these seeds brimming with mystery metamorphosing into vitality,
nourishment, sustenance: abundant provision.
Even your face is the shape of the acorn, seed of the stalwart oak.
Tree of Life, indeed!
You are surrounded by stars, tiny yet immense centers of light.
Five fingered stars, like hands, like humans, our community,
where we’re embedded to be light for each other, to walk each other home,
to be with. Companions in compassion.
Our nights are also illumined by stars that no longer exist,
whose dying light has not yet reached us,
just as many of those who have lighted our path are no longer with us
yet continue to shine.
Across time, across space ,our light extends to each other, none of us ever truly alone.
Tongues of fire crown you, beauteous as a sunflower.
You kindle the divine fire within; flaming out, it is light for us.
Thirteen flowers, a baker’s dozen of holiness, abundance of spirit,
more than enough for all of us who weren’t in that upper room 2000 years ago.
And your gifts to me!
The bone, that which endures when all else has decayed. . .
You remind me to sing over the bones with pen and paintbrush,
to show others how to gather what is left of old stories, old lives, dismembered selves
and find the songs that re-member the (w)holiness.
You hand me the grail, and my cup overflows.
Not only enough, but plenty.
Not only plenty, but fathomless.
You charge me to dive deep into these numinous, luminous waters, to
understand language that is not translatable to the common tongue.
And finally, you offer me my life: the cross, encircled.
This is my Catholic past and my interspiritual future,
where I sit at the crux of my matter
joining human with divine, and remembering the circles of
medicine wheel, mandala, Celtic cross.
You’ve transformed my lived experience into a plethora of symbols which
now offer me crucial daily discernment into how to best live who I am.
I am brought full circle to you. To myself.
I bow to you, dear three eyed mystery, accepting the call.