Painting along the Ottawa River in Aylmer
oil on canvas
20 x 40 inches
It is winter, and the winter wind is strong and cold. I feel like a little boy who is trying to fly a kite. The ghost of my father is beside me. I am alone. I do my best to embrace the freedom of myself.
So, I am that little boy trying to fly his kite on a very windy day. As I become more centered, I am creative. And I become the painter who is falling into the rainbow of pigments on his canvas. I leave my body. I forget that it is cold. I am a soul. I am energy. I am the wind. I am the snow blowing in the wind. There is an invisible energy that flows in the current of my soul. I am the snowflake that melts on my face. I am transforming. I am completely alive in the moment.
I am the kite that is blowing. But the wind is so strong. The kite speeds up, spins around and around. The wind is wild and out of control. The kite nose-dives to the ground. My palette blows 20 feet across the field. My canvas blows away too – throws itself. It does not break. My bones are stronger. I am Rocky. I do not accept failure. I embrace the pleasure and the pain equally. It is intensely cold outside and my fingers are screaming. Blue blood. Red blood. I am that kite. I retrieve my palette and brushes. I have to smile. I smile and embrace the crazy beautiful moment. I am not complaining. I love the intensity of everything.
So I continue to be that boy learning to fly his kite. It is a dream, a crazy dream. The wind gets wilder. I am doing my best to satisfy my soul. The painting blows around and will not stay still. I feel like I am play fighting with a lover. I pin her down in the bed of my mind. Try to kiss her. She is resisting; she is trying to tickle me, but I want to make tender passionate love. My soul is open and my senses are alive. I am naked. I am completely vulnerable. I am distilled, cocooned, nested in this perfect intimate moment. I am a baker making bread. A carpenter building furniture. I am a make-up artist putting mascara on lashes. I am a gardener taking time to remove weeds.
I am a fragile egg that is falling. I keep falling and hold nothing back. I give and I give. I touch the canvas with great tenderness and abundant generosity. All the crocuses, tulips, daffodil bulbs bloom inside and break through my skin like Spring. I get goose bumps, or perhaps frostbite. I feel everything. I cut myself open. The zipper of Soul is open, and my skin is on the ground. I keep bleeding and I keep believing. I empty over 50 large tubes of paint in under 2 hours. It is a massive party, and I have all the voices singing inside my head. There are no rules, just pure freedom.
This moment continues… and I hold this bliss. Then suddenly the kite is free. The egg hits the ground. And everything inside of me has become the canvas.