“What the caterpillar sees as the end, the butterfly knows is just the beginning.”
The leaves, the tendrils, the colours they unfurl
My world becomes washed with: turquoise, magenta, vermillion, lime
The walls and sky are watercolour paper
Hand becomes brush, just as rider becomes horse.
The swilling thought of studio mind.
Watching the sun rise yesterday, the morning shine dripping vivid down green leaves in our front yard.
At a picnic, I spot a white feather where there was not one before.
It is surely one fallen from an angel’s wing…
The images drop on to the page. Create, create, create, until I am empty. I wander away, and my cup is refilled again, ready to spout and sprout.
I dreamt some nights ago that I was birthing flowers, and they spun out from between my legs. Flowers upon flowers. Giving birth to flowers…
I ponder that the Great Unknown may be the most knowing thing of all.