There are places that call to us. Water calls me like the forest does. Here in Western North Carolina, the two landscapes of my spirit meet and sing their duet. Sitting on the ground, as if at their feet, feels like timeless, holy healing and rightful respect. It makes me feel small and alive… and in the presence of mighty precious mystery.
When I sketch or paint in these places, there is a subtle sort of trance that happens – a seeing, breathing, un-thinking. I feel my creative self move into the energy that is all around me, permeating me with her sights, sounds and scents – and I keep my colors moving and my attentiveness inquisitive. I try very hard not to look upon the page with any judgment at all – because the feeling of just being there trumps any notion of capturing it to page. To lay it to page is more of a meditation with place, about extending that feeling within me, reveling and savoring it, impressing it upon my cells. So I let my brush and paints ride the wave. Water is a delightfully mischievous muse.
At this waterfall, the smell was fresh, the air misty and cool on my skin, and the sights vibrated. The roar of the water was as sweet as silence can be. My husband sat next to me and sketched his own pages. We talked very little. We listened and looked and laid on the old grandfather rocks… remembering something about ourselves that only a slow-down in nature can reveal.