Which story of all the seemingly true stories should be privileged in the first moments of our brief and at-a-distance meeting here? How do we close the space between us, see each other through mere words and images, these ephemera that give a shape of what we want, first, to know of ourselves while playing in the reflections that we cast back and forth and, then, to realize about the one holding the mirror?
We begin, and begin again. Over and over, the one that feels apart tries to place a hold on a certain look-of-face or an idea of “who” — of self or other — that will hold over time. But the “who” does not stay steady through the passage of days. Her changing is inevitable and in the end, her act-of-changes is a sacrament of surrender to what Is beyond the little self that wonders and worries about existence.
I will tell you this. The one who writes and speaks and makes an image here is more than the one I think she is in the ordinary course of hours and days. There is something Happening far beyond her histories of being artist and poet. This sharing of her many voices and forms is a way of inquiring into why and what and Who she Is.
In the landscapes of inner and outer worlds, there are some things I have come to deeply, intuitively realize about being here as a mortal and fleshy creature; there is something being understood about the implications of striving to find meaning-patterns across the landscapes of human adventure and of surrendering the need to be attached to an outcome or an intention or desire even while they tug and pull and shape my walk-about here. Something, too, is Happening that powers making visible the invisible feeling-things, and entering and celebrating beauty in darkness as well as in the indefinable and heart-breaking Light.
When writing and painting, there is a coming-to-know that Happens. I do not know beforehand, before the making or the undoing of what I thought to be true. The act of participating in the yoga of self-surrender into the moment of seeing what is asking to be noticed gives rise to an intelligence that is beyond ordinary mind; it seems a kind of essence and is initiated from heart-opening to the Divine and Conscious Light of Being, Itself. What is true and beautiful and good (and sometimes dark or sparkling or blindingly star-bright) tumbles and shimmers like cool, clear water gushing forth from the place where it is always, already abiding in the deep well of Being.
This is what I have come to understand from studying the Transcendental Realism art and writings of Adi Da Samraj. These are not mere ideas that have been appropriated or otherwise taken-on as abstract intellectual or philosophical premises. They are a matter of direct experience in relationship with him.
That is all the “about” there is for now.