July 25, 2020 - The Master's Hand

I told you before about the old painter, the one who hides his works of art in a closet, never to be seen.  But that does not stop him from painting, because that is what he does.  And as I also told you, when he dies, the house will burn down and all the paintings with it, and it will be as if the paintings had never been.  That is why I tell you about him and about them, so you will know and you will remember when he is gone.

He brings his canvas and paints and a stool with him on this early morning, slung over his back in an old familiar pack, the weight of which is chronic and causes pain but is sorely missed when not there.  It is our burdens we remember most fondly, I think.  The fleeting joys are just that—fleeting.  But the burdens, oh how we endure them.  A life well lived is filled with pain, this I believe.

Where shall he place his stool?  He cannot decide.  Now here and now there.  But he is tired and sits down to rest.  Perhaps the inspiration will come to him, like an angel settling on his conscience, reminding him of his duties, whispering of responsibility.  He runs his old calloused hand across the canvas.  Then again.  And yet again.  His old eyes do not see much of it anymore, but the feel is always the same.  The linen begs for touch, for hue.

I watch him secretly.  Sometimes it begins with a sketch, flowers and trees on a wispy landscape.  Or bold mountains and a crashing sea.  Or a woman’s face, saddened and looking down at her dirty hands.  Then the palette comes out and the colors are mixed, but not all of them are used.  The linen cries in pain if he should place the wrong color.  I can see the happy colors in a corner of the palette, but he does not reach for them yet.  He finds the darkened hues instead, the colors so like those I hide within my own soul.  How does he know?

It is a dusky red against a tired green, the kind of green that Summer gives when she cannot give anymore and longs to place her seeds within a cool earthly grave, no casket to adorn them, just hardened spiky pods of hidden life buried in a cold and bony embrace.  But she longs for it because the giving has become too much.  And somehow the painter, he also knows this giving of too much.  He knows the sorrow that abundance will bring, has no choice but to bring.  The jagged lines on his face deepen in recognition of what is to come.

Then unexpectedly, he quickly reaches down and pulls up a thorny hawthorn branch, raking it through his fingers.  I wince with the pain I know he must feel from the thorns, but the lines relax on his face.  He reaches out and a few drops of blood fall upon the holy linen.  He has gone too far, I think to myself.  He cannot put his own blood on the linen!  Does he know?  Does he realize what he has done?  Or has age finally taken his mind?  The lines in his wizened face deepen again in pain, yet the blue of his eyes against the red of his hands is striking.  Who am I to judge?

Then the master’s hand begins again.  Brilliant flowers dance upon a perfect linen landscape.  A perfect sky with perfect clouds.  And a couple in the distance, holding hands and walking through a field of ripening grain, the darker edges of the forest in the background not yet whispering of the pain of the years to come.  The tired green and brilliant blood berries in the foreground are unknown to the youths who walk happily in the field.  And how could they know?

It is done.  He sets it aside haphazardly, as if he is pushing away an empty plate from a meal enjoyed long ago.  Then he reaches into his pack and pulls out a weathered old sketch and places it on the easel.  It is the sketch of the woman who looks down at her dirty hands.  I recognize it.  The master does not paint her.  He removes a scant meal from his pack, a bit of bread and dried apple and a flask.  And he sits in silence and eats, staring at the woman who stares at her hands.  He tips his flask to her and then drinks.

The day has worn on and the shadows are growing quickly.  I have been here too long.  I should not have followed him.  I should not have looked at the blood berries.  I should not have noticed her dirty hands.  But hindsight alone is perfect.  There are always so many things we should not have done.

I turn to leave, freeing my skirt from a thorny bush.  He looks quickly in my direction.  Surely, he cannot see me?  Those old eyes can focus only on the past now.  Still he looks.  I back up slowly and disappear within the tree line.  I head for home, for the safety of four walls where there are no berries to be seen.

And the master, he packs up as well and begins the journey back to his own home.  He grabs the perfect landscape painting almost as an afterthought, swinging it uselessly from his lined hand.  Another perfect day to place in the old closet.  My, how the days add up.  All of them so perfect.

July 12, 2020 - Two Suns

“What I am saying, you silly girl, is that the part is the same as the whole, only lesser in quantity, quality, and aspect.  It is the same thing, but on a lower level,” he said.

I pretended to understand because I did not want to make him angry.  When he gets angry, he leaves all too soon, and there was a great deal more I wanted to know, or be reminded of, as the case may be.  Talking to me on this plane at this time of year, however—especially this time of year—is not something he often does.

Perhaps I should go back and explain.  After all, you caught me in the thick of it.  You see, like a moth drawn to the flame, I headed back to the deep woods.  I cannot seem to keep away, and he knows this.  It is how he catches me every year and brings me back to the deep sleep, in which I remember who I am again.  Until I forget.  Again.

And so it was today.  I headed off to the shade because I cannot bear the sun, the light being too bright, the rays being too hot and burning.  It is deep in the woods under the thick canopy of trees, where I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.  I said nothing as I walked along, which is not ordinary for me, because I usually talk out loud to no one as I go.  It is a habit of mine.  But not today.

Today there was a kind of angst.  And not just today, but for quite some time.  In fact, that happens to be a general feeling for everyone I meet these days, although admittedly, I do not encounter many people.  It is a feeling of being on edge, of things being not quite right, of being on the brink of something but never seeming to get there.  And foreboding.  A feeling of foreboding.  Of something being terribly wrong.

I brought it with me as I headed into the deep woods, this shadow hanging over me, this all-pervasive lie I see in everyone’s eyes these days.  “Come with me into the sanctuary,” I said to myself, “and we will see who has stolen the light.”  Because, you see, someone has stolen it, or at least has tried to.  The sun we see today is not the same sun we used to see.  This blazing, burning, painful thing is not the same as it was.

And there I was in the deep woods.  I set my pack down because I was tired and hot, even in the coolness of the trees.  And that is when he came upon me.  I knew better than to turn around, because if I had, there would have been no one there.  My eyes cannot always see what is before me, and today was one of those days.  Ah, the wretched summer, always masking what is right in front of us.

But I am not as brave as I would like to imagine I am, and what I really did was sit and weep.  I do not even know why I was weeping, but once I started I could not seem to stop.  It was at some point in my pitiful sobbing that he appeared.  I stopped crying then in a desperate show of pathetic bravado.  Ah, the feeble ego.  What price we pay to seem as if we are other than we are.

We made our usual greetings—me telling him he had frightened me out of my wits and him telling me I am still a coward.  It was the familiar salutation.  But I got right to it because I was not sure how much time I had, him being in enemy territory this time of year.  I told him about the burning sun, the different sun, the one I did not like anymore.  I think at any other time, this would have been music to his ears, but this time I could tell he hesitated.

“So you feel it too, then?” I asked.  He did not answer.

“Can you tell me what is going on?” I asked again.  “Something is happening in the world, and I do not understand it.”

“There is nothing new under the sun,” he began.

“This feels new.  I do not remember this.”

“You will remember it,” he said, “And then you will re-member it.”

This was not going to be easy, but with him, it never is.  I decided just to get straight to the point.  He always appreciates directness.

“It is the sun.  He is like a burning cauldron, hotter and worse than he has ever been before,” I began.  “And it feels different.  He feels different.”  I could feel him wince from that.  “And the light looks different.  And the people look different.  They do not talk as much as they used to.  Their eyes are glazed, as if they are in some sort of trance.  Their words are masked and difficult to understand.  And everywhere the burning continues.  It is a strange summer.”

I started to weep again but tried to hide it.  He does not like weakness, and for that matter, neither do I.  He was hesitant.  I waited quietly and knew better than to interrupt him.

“There is an imposter,” he began.  “As you well know, the Sun and I have always been good enemies and always will be.  But there is an imposter, an old adversary, one who thinks he might shine as brightly as the Sun but only delivers lies and perversion.”

“Is he the one who is burning me?  Who is burning us all?” I asked.

“Aye.”

“What can we do?  How can we get past his lies, back to the natural world we all knew and loved?”  He winced again at the world ‘love.’

“You must find your own ‘Sun,’ and let it shine,” he said, “And be guided by it alone.”
“My own sun?  What are you saying??”

“What I am saying, you silly girl, is that the part is the same as the whole, only lesser in quantity, quality, and aspect.  It is the same thing, but on a lower level,” he said.

I pretended to understand because I did not want to make him angry.  When he gets angry, he leaves all too soon, and there was a great deal more I wanted to know, or be reminded of, as the case may be.  Talking to me on this plane at this time of year, however—especially this time of year—is not something he often does.

“You have heard the phrase, ‘as above, so below’?  This always applies,” he said.

“So there is a sun in the sky and there is a sun in me?” I asked.

“Yes.  Have a care, though.  Distinguish between a ‘sun’ and a ‘Sun.’  Be guided by your inner light, not by the rusted tinsel of the merchant.”

“You are a piece, a fragment.  But not like broken glass,” he went on, “More like a holograph.  When broken, each tiny piece contains the entirety of the image but in a smaller, less profound size with less effect, but effect nonetheless.”

My mind was swimming.  But I had to be brave.  What else do we have in the end but courage?

“So the piece is the same as the whole?” I asked.

“Indeed, but it is smaller and on a different level.”

“And does it have the same energy and power as the whole?”

“Your intellect is boring,” he said, “Of course it is the same.  The piece is made in the image of the whole.  But on a lower level.”

I felt shame.  The Judge in my mind demanded to know who I thought I was entertaining such highfalutin ideas.  The Judge’s words kept echoing….. ‘You are nothing.  You can do nothing.  You can be nothing.  It is too late for you.’  But the Judge was wrong.  He echoed only the words of the imposter, masked and darkened.

“I must take my leave in the Shadows,” he said simply and abruptly, his voice strained and tired.

“But wait!” I blurted, “How do I contact the energy of the Sun?  Please…..”  He sighed.

“You are like an outlet in the wall of your home, always ready with energy.  But unlike the one in your home, the energy flows both ways.”

“So I can plug in?” I asked.

“Yes, and you can be plugged into.  Because you cannot create without it.  And without you, nothing can be created.”

There was no point in asking anything else because he was gone, back to the Underworld, the Lord of Winter.  What strength.  How could I have forgotten?

It was time to go home.  I avoided the scorching sun in the sky and left the deep woods straight away.  I sought the comfort and solace of my home, my own space.  In my room, I shut the door and drew the curtains.  I laid down comfortably and peacefully without moving, my eyes closed.  I listened to the rhythm of my own breathing.  And presently, in my center, there shown a bright and loving Sun, which radiated to my whole being, which confirmed what I had known all along, which could only speak truth.  Unmasked, He kissed me and said, “I am.”

He with ears, let him hear.