22 X 30
the story of
. . . if a home
has not a garden and an old tree,
I see not whence
the everyday joys of life are to come?
The Flower Hermit(1)
Story of this Painting
When I sit in
meditation quietly watching my breath the world begins to turn. There
is a place, a magic spot, in the midst of this motion where my body
becomes one with the earth. At that moment I become a flower in the
garden. My skin becomes fragile, pearlescent, alive with photosynthesis.
Breathing perfume my lily scent merges with the fragrance of cherry
blossoms, the dancing finger tips of the ancient gnarled tree at the
center of the earth. From deep within the rich fertile humus, water
flows. An underground spring revealing the secret place where life
begins. The soft petals awaken and open to receive morning sun. I
commune deeply with the moisture laden heart of the flowers and watch
as dew forms a river rivulet that playfully tumbles to the moss blanket
below. The cherry tree's roots weave together the earth that cradles
me like a beloved child. Its branches hold up the sky. I am surrounded
and embraced by my life. Gratitude forms my body. Love animates it.
Beyond the eaves
of the pavilion an old tree raised its gnarled trunk;
its branches throwing
a dense shade across the window, dyeing our faces green . . .
We spent the long,
hot summer days together:
but reading, discussing the classics, enjoying the moonlight or idly
admiring the flowers . . . I
n all the world,
we thought, no life could be happier than this.