New paintings are happening everyday, and each one is feeling like the next step. As I have been facing the muck of my spiritual history, like the first time (because this time I'm not using Prozac or denial to soften my gut wrenching responces) the bullsh#t that happened to me back then is weightier- as if the ugliness of my secrets try to pull me under again.
But I'm looking at them- the ones who took the innocence from the child and the ones who stole the oil from the lamp of the one trying to hold on to the light. When I look deep into the muck, and the death from those seasons of lies, I am faced with the honesty that the pains are woven into my fiber with no hope of being extracted. But the grave of yesterday's mulch is the placenta, providing a nursery bed for the next thing. Somehow, I no longer see the deep, but the sky above me below my feet. I see the sprouts as new hopes, and they are rising from the womb of their story with complete abandon and fortitude as if innocence has no knowledge of her shame, and no interest in the details. And so, I paint it again, and someday, I may learn from it, to walk on water.