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Daily Arrangements ~ The Art of the Bouquet

Daily Arrangements ~ The Art of the Bouquet

Deep Digs for Treasure? Sometimes Treasure Hides In Plain Sight

Digging deep in my files looking for something else, I find a week’s work from 2014. Daily flower arrangements from the land on a semi-arid mesa in New Mexico 20+ miles outside of Santa Fe. Someone made the comment, There is only brown and green and rocks and briars here. My eyebrows went up as I, Hold on. I’ll be back in 30 minutes to an hour. Please take…. hmmm, THAT vertical glass vase, and fill it up to half-ish with water. And, hiking boots zipped back up, I went out on the 50 acres, through the flats, down into the 2 Arroyos, up the steeps 600 feet or so higher, as I eyeball, discern, pick, compose, surrender to goallessness simply enjoying the walk with purpose.

45 minutes to an hour later I walk back up off the land onto the deck and to the back door with my ingredients behind my back. I poke my head in the door. Where’s the vase? They point to it. Ok, all y’all out the front door. Scat. I’ll call you back in in a few. As I park my bounty on the butcher block Kitchen island, I feel a cascade of ablution tingles wash through me. Nice way to start art I’d say. I proceed to pick and push and snip and place and smile and NAH NO WAY interrogating tensions and relish and cherish this assemblage moment. Then, my head bounces back just like when I finish a painting. It’s a moment easily missed, and I you miss it, all you say later after you effed it up is, Ahhh, you had to touch it, didn’t you. Just haddddd to touch it.

A heart in love with beauty never grows old.

~ Turkish Proverb

But, That Day, At That TIme

But, that Day, at that time, I listened, felt the visceral CLICK like the last tumbler of a safe as it makes the invitation to welcome sound… click. I step back. I turn it around. It doesn’t have a Janus-face front and back. Doesn’t have a good side. Works in all 360 degrees, simply has a different gesture, different identity, different tenor of perspective in the chords the bouquet strikes to resonate. And, I place it off center on the dining table, say, Yup, the center is not necessarily in the middle. The center is simply where you place your energy in focus.

A Little Loki-Impish Happy

Laughing, a little Loki-impish happy, I walk over and knock on the front door from the inside. Anyone home out there? They open the door a little quizzled. Why are you knocking from the inside. Anyone home out here? What are you up to? Cupped hands raised up, Oh. I thought you guys might want to be liberated from your freedom out there on the front porch. Come on in from that home to this one and follow your wonderment. See what you find on your own.

Empathic Silences

One back-side-step over, I held the door open as one by one, we all experienced one of these together. Now, I honestly cannot remember which was the 1st. It was a week of circles that found themselves alive, those tidy points in sync where the rooster tail of the Architect’s compass lead swings around to Ouroburos tail-bite lap over its start point with a seamless segue in the fluid fluency of a caterpillar of an arc as it transforms into its unsquared circle butterfly identity re-incarnated as more infinite beauty in potentiality accessible only by action and silences, Empathic Silences.

This was the day

This was the day I discovered wild bean flowers that grew along the banks of the Arroyos. I had not seen them before. Maybe like O’keefe would say of my beans discovery, You look, though do you see? That day I did. Their seeds, several stuck between rocks that had not re-touched the earth at the ground, dark and hard and shiny purple-black. Their flowers, whites and pinks and deeper fucsha’d pinks all from the same tribe, each one’s petal gesture receptive like the cup of a hand.

From : To : ~ : To : From

From hard to soft. From dark to light, and from all places within and around and in between, the 4th-character voice of the A U M, the 4th character Empathic Silences of all the spaces within and between and all around. The spaces between the notes, the Psychic Synapses of seamless segues in the fluid fluency of heartfelt connection and laughter that day were open. I now have an experiential awareness of the origin of the magic beans story, another in the community that sing clear the guts of the process where dark lead transforms through action into Psychic Gold, a place where glasses are never half full or half empty. Everyone’s is refillable. Everyone refills to the brim so they can spill a little beauty here and there.

Beauty is the spill you don’t have to clean up.

How can you spill a little beauty today?

Laughter is the shortest distance between people.

~ Victor Borge

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Posted by on September 12, 2020 in Incarnations

 

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