I’m swaying with the music, singing periodically, in tune with the canvas and my own creative potential, as the mind bows to the heart and body below. Sea green and fuchsia swirls begin to intuitively fill a white background, cotton candy hearts reminding me of childhood. The gaps are filled in with lavender. A face begins to emerge, eyes closed in creative contemplation, a crimson lotus at the third eye.
Then the canvas is colored by more crimson lotuses and streaks of ochre, a crimson om to remind me of culture and duty. Something about this feels messy and heavy, yet necessary and meaningful. It feels like I am opening to the design of my life with more acceptance.
When we are asked to paint an image of Ma somewhere on the canvas, I am drawn to the white paint, and try to paint a profile of Her that is worthy, that captures my devotion and profound gratitude for Her unconditional love. Instead, what appears is a small face.
Feeling as if I’ve failed, the energy becomes frenetic trying to paint green leaves and a massive trunk over us both, as if an image of a tree can save the painting and still express my deep love for Her.
I don’t like the painting at all, and wonder about the process. Driving home from Sonoma after a long day, I’m too tired and careful not to juice the experience for significance to the point of dehydration.
The next morning in meditation, She appears as white paint, gentle brushstrokes covering any fixed ideas I have about myself or the painting. I’m struck by Her patience, Her kindness, Her forgiveness. Ideas and colors are born from a primordial white womb of not knowing. They capture expressions, experiences, and feelings at a certain point in time. Are they permanent?
Even these words are an attempt to capture an experience that cannot be reduced to a single cause or meaning. What if we are all in process, blank pages and white canvases with the chance to begin again and give ourselves to the possibility love, however it shows up?
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