A world constructed around consumer needs, a world built on false dreams, a world thus made by belief in other than the precious self be true, the innocent one, the magical one that dwells in the silent space.
There are so many who walk among the living dead not seen. I write to honor one soul’s chosen path yet forgotten in the immortal sea, like a seed washed up on the shore fully incapable of finding roots in a landscape gone bare, grown ugly on greed.
The only solace is the turning within and walking alone along windswept plains, loss compiling loss unable to commit to any act of compliance with the outer rules of the false lords of demands.
His Grace, unheard, unheralded, unseen.
This man looks within and finds he doubts himself for he doesn’t fit in, doesn’t fit anywhere. Yet he lives… his expression finding voice in a garden, in capturing the beauty of the eminence of light in matter on the canvases he paints, his fingers find a piano and so he plays for ten long years every night not knowing from where he knew how to play …
He sees himself not and that is his grace, this purity of innocence that knows only how to express in a child’s way.
Speaking with my dear friend I see another part of self for a mother sees the beauty of all things, she does not advise or control she holds this tender child’s place in the arms of love.
She hears the rise and fall of the ocean’s eternal tides as a lullaby…
She whispers now for those to hear the silent ones…
A “superimposition of faces and races, a microcosm of the macrocosm, blending as unity in diversity. A mere microscopic metaphor hopefully harmonizing and healing the pains of polarization. A further footnote to feet on the ground and tribute to all souls at Standing Rock, and everywhere indigenous to earth and beyond. Painting as prayer. Apache Mystery, painted November 2008. With diligent care that the goodness of human-heartedness radiate and shine through.”
Visit martin’s garden, food for the soul.