| Return to the Womb of Creativity |

Prajnaparamita Dancing to Save the Earth

40 x 60 watercolor, 1989

spiritual trailblazer

the story of this painting




Eeeeeee Green grandmother tree

Perfume rose circle bleed bath me

Fragrant wind form free breath

Empty earth throne crown seed

Creation story light house be

Snakes glowing wisdom heal bring

Rain nourish earth roots feed

Eeeeeee Green grandmother tree

--a Power Chant to Heal the Earth Body

| TOP |


The Story of this Painting

I am in Bodhgaya, India, facing the vajra throne for the first time. Ecstatic tears flow down my cheeks in recognition that I've waited lifetimes to come to this place. The Bodhi Tree, her roots and branches having forever called me, sending forth thirty six years of TREE visions welcomes me to the center of the Buddhist world with a loving embrace. A child of hers has come home and the moment opens unfolding infinitely. All that I am rushes forth to engage with the sacred, yet my body stands motionless. Wisdom speaks -- Now my child you learn the Earth Dance.

I'm following a map where there is no beginning and no end and I am afraid. Afraid of the emptiness. Bending down to kiss the ancient withered face of the crone as she lies sleeping, I turn to find myself alone. Others flee, not understanding my affection for one who has faced old age with power, her skin the brown bark of grandmother tree. Standing at the center of the Earth I watch as they come to say goodbye, not even asking if I would like to attend the Grateful Dead concert with them. Relieved, they walk, then run blindly till they are out of sight, not turning for a moment to look back. Running blindly to at last find the edge when they fall off. Deep sadness-grief fills my heart. It's lonely here, the place of no goals, no memories. Time folds in upon its self forming infinite petals of fire tulip flowers weaving a net of interconnection. But the interconnection, the interdependence is unconscious and I'm alone again in the emptiness.

Reaching out to touch the face of my beloved, he recoils. The stone woman's visage has again come forth in the time of blood. Her ecstatic face hiding. When the stone woman gets up to dance, he knows she is one. The veins of the slowly spinning mandala wheel frozen into silver gray melt and become molten gold rays. Intertwining they become the net of Indra and weave together seemingly separate stars of light. Wisdom uncoils and resurges. An age old map maze on the back of a tortoise crawls forth from the ocean to lay eggs in the boundless particles of sand. Eggs that bare the twice born. Once cradled into earth in luminous shell coffins, the mammoth mother turtle dancing on the beach, her ecstatic life giving drum beat to remind the sleeping turtle-ettes to awaken. Few break their shells and emerge, for in modern times their rough craggy brown shell skin, the face of the dark mother is not cherished for its innate beauty. Value is transformation into torti-combs and bracelets by human hands. Human hands not realizing in ignorance that they create their own shackles and iron masks. The ancient mothers gather to dance and drum on beaches since the beginning of turtle time, only now the desire weakens as wise brown fathomless eyes gaze upon the sacred ground wreckage. Womb courage waltzing ocean waves to bring new life. Primal strength to hold the earth embraced in space on her tortoise back. Joy in dancing life into form. It's turtles all the way down. Down as an infinite spiral that radiates in ten directions and folding in time comes back to its own womb birthing tortoises, hares, trees, dragonflies, flowers, devas and beings unceasingly.

Hares sitting on zafus breathing when they want to dance and hop and eat carrots and procreate. Hare priests and priestesses knowing the time to dance will come when their breath moves music in their veins. Molten gold music. Zafus turning into star filled discs on night sky phonographs singing lives of antique grandfathers transformed into storyteller bards with crone-like muses stroking their canyon lined brows. Spiritual gatekeepers watching their hare prodigy crawl, hearts pounding to the edge of the zafu circle only to find edgelessness. Hare prodigy hopping up and down, twitching, seething, contorting into Tibetan ferocious deities with compassionate Buddha navels and lotus hearts opening and closing. Hares standing on their heads to have feet feel the sky for an edge. Finding edgelessness they wait for baby tortoises to grow and support the earth. A tortoise net to catch them at the edgelessness. A tortoise mind to contemplate emptiness.

| TOP |