RAMBLE WITH OAK

I was what’s called, ‘waiting’. That is, just being, passionately but patiently impatient for inspiration and how to tie certain things together.

When the non-verbal insight arose by itself: ‘A rope is a flexible continuity which can be used for forward progress (leading, lifting, pulling, climbing,) or, contrarily, to bind something in place preventing progress.’

Not only that. When a rope turns on itself (enough to throw anything for a loop) yet insists on going through with it with forward intent, it meets a snag called appropriately ‘a knot’, which already sounds like a negation of progress.

If it does it again it’s in a double bind, which is fine if the intention is to bind. We’ve all tied our shoelaces enough times to not even have to think about it. But with inspiration, having been there enough times to train myself to be passionately dispassionate about seeming to be at the end of my rope, yet not making it a tug of war.

Better to pause, and neither push nor pull on the delusory conflict between complimentary poles, and not settle for another double bind. The battle of black and white and other silly loop-tapes.

To not turn on yourself as if you were a worm, sending you for a loop, yet still persisting no matter how patiently impatient, such being the nature of waiting. Whatever about religion, from the Latin ‘religare’ meaning, ‘to bind back’, which doesn’t sound very liberating and which may or may not have been its original intention.

Better still the unravelling, a mini- revelation. Trace back, revealing what you did, but without turning on yourself a second time, and with no loss of passion to heal the ‘not-happening’, simply un-do, comprehending the process inwardly.

Conscientious compulsion to self-forgive, may also still mask a ‘turning on yourself’, until it doesn’t. A snag is only a not-happening till it’s unravelled. We grow by correcting mis-takes, which otherwise plummet to the pole we call evil when we refuse to see and instead, justify and persist. We’ve all untied our shoelaces enough times.

Persisting without deviation is what may be called a straight line, and we are culturally coerced to deify straight lines. Which, as we were told, are the shortest distance between two points. Which may be so as the crow flies or on paper, or driving across flat terrain. But in a wiggly world such conclusions are questionable. You could fall asleep from monotony, run out of fuel, or die of thirst.

Besides, all answers are questionable. Being conclusions (endings) they put an end to further enquiry free of already biased assumption. In looking for answers and building a life on them, we might well have continued to evolve further by forming and refining more intelligent questions.

Why settle for answers when you can ask questions? Belief is ‘choosing to assume’, it’s not-knowing. Another knot. Only when you know you don’t know will you attempt to learn and grow.

Not to mention corners, which are the inevitable result of straight lines. Most of the self-evidently alien intrusion in the natural world is the insistence on straight lines, roads, buildings, weapons, the ‘cornerstone’ of which, being ‘economics’: All ‘nomics’ with no regard for ‘eco-systems’.

Corners are a binary system, alien to our essence as one-with wiggly nature, and nature abhors a ninety degree angle. Corners conveniently replicate as grids, a superimposition of cages within cages of blocked negative energy. Grids are graphs to control and inhibit free flow of natural energy. Alien to nature and taken for granted. Imagine straight intestines, you’d really be in the... system where you’re blocked at every turn.

To return to wiggly lines in lieu of inspiration, and my previous painting PRESENCE OF OAK. A friend suggested that a version with black lines instead of brown would work well, as with recent works, and i noted that could well be so.

Curiosity and desire to paint prompted me to transform the existing painting rather than repeat the process. Possibly enhance, evolve, and enrich it in doing so. Sometimes you can take things further when you have something already formed to work with.

So i decided to see if it felt right. A relatively minor challenge for sure but one that suits my style, and after it ‘not working’ for quite a while, i was ultimately far from being disappointed.

Having for a lifetime explored many inner avenues away from early revelations related to a certain subtle integration of form-enhancing black incisive line. With intent not to emphasize boundaries knowing none exist.

Yet, paradoxically, in delicately daring to define form, it is demonstrated that ‘difference is what everything has in common’, hence the richness revealed. The original revelations of which as i well recall prompted me to sing in appreciation.

After all, who owns your garden fence, you or your neighbour? Or if you take sides, is the bulk of it then shared? Or, if you must have definitive answers to such knotty questions as, “how is everything one while apparently separate?” Which qualifies as “a good question.” Then frame it like this: “Distinctness is the surest sign of underlying unity.” Relationally speaking. Everything is a network of distinct interrelationships.

As in art, so with everything, and that’s saying a lot. The part is not apart from the whole. Wholes don’t have separate parts that’s why they’re whole. They only seem to when we distinguish distinctions, needing to draw a line somewhere between the loved and the not loved.

The oaks return, along with vision, and every-thing is recreated new as it ever was, one-with a wild and wiggly world, and today is Winter Solstice. Silently celebrating the cyclic return of solar self-same celestial light. *

*** *** *** ***

Martin Rainbowmaker.

A SHAFT OF LIGHT

Recalling a quiet walk in the woods. Returning to revise and totally rewrite, after wandering way off topic and into subsequent unfoldings. In a complex world simplicity is a rare gem. So to resume the thread of inspiration for this painting, already titled ‘A Shaft of Light.’

Autumn sunlight streaming through, down a steep incline, moving among prickly underbrush, layers of illuminated leaves below silent sleeping trees. To pause on a single weighted footfall- crunch of brittle dry detritus. An unseen creature one with the woods. ~

Breaking the surface of sleep, escaping with a sudden gut-deep abandoned and inconsolable whimper, from some tragic sad and soulful dream. What a way to wake to wonder why and what in the world it may mean.

So arise and sit awhile in quiet, with warm cupped comfort of tea before more rest. After a whole night’s study and three hours sleep. Pale peach tints of blue-grey damp dawn before bird chirp, mountains still veiled in grey across the bay. The inner child awaits the returning wise warrior within.

Still unaware the dream had coincided with widespread floods throughout the land, leaving many abandoned without home, echoes of the waking whimper from the dream and images related.

Waiting watchful, listening inwardly for the sign, to resume the task in hand. The painting, the first stage completed to satisfaction almost a month ago. Still on pause, having subtle qualities easily spoiled by haste. With art, it serves no purpose to push the river, but go with nature’s flow.

So when the natural light is right, to illuminate, and not obliterate these intricate textures that arrived, since they’re uncontrived. A specific and precise process currently evolving, involving tactile textures.

Which, when you really focus, with soft sustained attention, deep magnification, you find there’s worlds in there, and diversified dimensions. In visionary relief as glimpsed archaic hieroglyphics revealed in the light of day, which never went away.

To see, you must sustain and not just glance off. It’s no mere insincere effect. Feel lovingly through the eyes and join the dots. Undistracted by all passing thoughts. Inner tension is inattention, beauty, the present absence of beholder.

I will have to take a gentle tentative approach. The black can blur and smudge when touched by water, that’s because it’s crayon and not paint, as when you take a rubbing from a coin.

But i took a very subtle chance, sealed it first all over with matt varnish. First attempt showed even that would smudge. So retouched with white and chose the softest brush, a Chinese bamboo one with hair that caused no friction, and softly sealed with no smudge anywhere. Even so must still proceed with care.

For now, i’ll sleep on it. Then create a sacred space, with reverence for refinement of ancient Chinese art, where minimal soft colour is subordinate to form and line, and disregarding time, find quiet joy in the process.

Since we’ve lost the plot,

then why not stop the fight?

So many see neither wood nor trees.

Oh look, a shaft of light!

=== === = === ===

Martin Rainbow-maker.

A Shaft of Light - Nov 15 
           Martin Law

ELEMENTAL MUSE

Elemental: ‘Of primitive natural forces or passions.’

Primitive natural forces? Who are we to call natural forces primitive? It’s not as if we are separate from the force of nature and can force ourselves against it. Not without dire consequence for the whole which includes us within it.

So is it really a mystery why what we call ‘our passions’ tend to be so destructive? If we pit our natural force against what we are one-with, what other result is possible?

Duality is in the suicidal delusion of mind that believes itself ‘civilized’ by contrast with, ‘primitive’: 1. ‘Of an early simple stage of development.’ 2. ‘Basic. Crude.’

Whereas, if what we call ‘civilization’ wasn’t so perpetually, glaringly, pathologically hypocritical, then our natural passions might have a chance to be life-affirmative and creative. Which they are, when not trapped in self- contradiction. Elemental is the way nature is, naturally.

A Native American saying: ‘It doesn’t take many words to speak the truth.’ So, for those with a short attention span, think of elemental as meaning, earthly, natural, worthy of reverence, and not to be messed with.

Muse: 1. ‘In Greek mythology, one of nine Goddesses, each of whom inspired an art or science.’ 2. ‘Force that inspires a creative artist.’ Also means, to ponder quietly.

As mentioned previously, the dictionary doesn’t have the last word on anything. It’s a self-defining, closed circuit system of circular logic, and circles don’t have ends, let alone a last word. Though it helps sometimes to understand at least the title, in this case Elemental Muse.

Not that the force of inspiration is something distinct from the artist, or from nature as a whole. That’s unthinkable, unless you think the words are the reality.

How can there be inspiration without a one who’s inspired, by something that’s inspiring? So don’t imagine that, in exploring creativity to its full, life-affirming potential, there’s any risk of going mad, being plagued by demons, and becoming famous mainly for slicing your earlobe and shooting yourself in a wheat field.

Unless your passions are such that you think natural means crude, and elemental is merely mental, or anything basic is something to either conquer or be enslaved by. In which case you’d be well advised to dabble with watercolours till you’ve sorted it out. Besides, inspiration is receptive and to muse also means to ponder quietly.

Neither do you want to become a passionless politically correct robot, cybernetically entrained to invisibly intrusive synthetic nanoparticles, dictating your every soulless predictable reaction.

If that sounds frivolously improbable, then you’d be urgently well advised to imminently immerse totally in nature, and disengage undue dependence on artificiality lest your trinary synaptic flux be transfixed by binary pixels.

‘Rocks and Roots’, is the title of this most recent painting, which speaks for itself without words. Inspired by an actual moment in nature, though a moment is not a point in time. How do you pinpoint what’s omnipresent except perhaps in paint?

ELEMENTAL MUSE.

Dive in deep, richness of layered leaf mulch settled by seasons’ rains.

Footfall crack and crunch of scattered brittle sticks.

Soft spongey moist and mounded moss to touch, cloaking all. Cladding twists of root and fertile fungal growth in deep druidic green.

Stark stillness of boulders embedded, quartz clusters lichen encrusted, stray leaf-fall glistens.

Voluminous rooted trunks twist criss-cross overlapping, branching out in dark uplifted limbs against the light.

Barely a small bird chirp as silent ooze, trickles down between rocks and roots, vegetal, mineral, organic elemental muse.

~~~ ~~~ ~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

RE-ENCHANTMENT.

You may justify ‘OWN’ because it’s also ‘WON’, but it translates more sanely as simply ‘NOW’. ~

If we co-operatively put as much energy into caring for nature as we put into war, politics, economics, control, domination, competitiveness, destruction, ‘resource’ plunder, and industry, an expanded and deepened awareness of what and where we are would pervade perception.

An earth-based caring consciousness, collectively established and lived experientially is equivalent to a renaissance of our original, natural, mystic wholeness with Mother Earth, already present in the timeless continuum. Urging us to wake from the delusive dream of separation and the currently prevailing estrangement.

More succinctly, a compassionate nurture for all nature, is synonymous with a new Earth, a new mind, and a new spirit, always and forever omnipresent, and made manifest by a radical change of heart. Outside of narrowed perception, but for misguided parasitic interference, that’s what IS.

Beyond language, conditioned concepts, inclusive of time, all that is natural is overwhelmingly wholly in eternity. First comes the urge to remain grounded in ‘the mystery’, along with the wish to share in consensus the intuited vision.

SO WHAT’S VISION?

The word means different things to different people. Depending on whether you’re an optician, a television salesperson, a strategist, a mystic, or an artist, and otherwise depends entirely on what you are able to envision it as being.

To envision is to use the uniquely human faculty of imagination effectively and creatively. You may say, “but i don’t have much of an imagination,” but what, do you imagine, became of the one you were born with? Perhaps you only imagine you don’t have an imagination.

 

Besides, we are actively miseducated, (why is that word absent from the dictionary?) and probably discouraged from exploring imagination. Yet you still do, naturally enough. The basic error is in the misuse of the words, ‘imagination’ and ‘imaginary’, as if to imply the opposite of what we call ‘real.’

The dictionary defines IMAGINARY as, “existing only in the IMAGINATION,” which it then defines as, “ability to make mental images of things that may not exist in real life.” To which i add the word, ‘yet’.

Thankfully however, it does make a clear and crucial distinction between IMAGINARY and IMAGINATIVE, defined as, “having or showing a lot of creative mental ability.” Similar words with very different implications. Just imagine saying to a Rembrandt, a Da Vinci, a Van Gogh, a Bach, or Beethoven, “don’t worry, it’s only your imagination.” Miseducated people do think like that.

So then the peer pressure of that basic error becomes epidemic, systemic, invading conventional consensus consciousness. Such that you could spend a life being out standing in many fields and still wondering where the Goddess has gone.

Meaning, it’s false to think reality and imagination are two separate worlds, they are blended and woven as one. When the mind dwells solely in the knowledge of war and mortal separation, the landscape may appear as a material wasteland, to be treated accordingly. As within, so without. A stranger in a strange land. The Earth is alive and aware and manifests like with like as does a mirror.

We are devotedly attuned to the wellness of our pet house-plants and garden patch and call it ‘ours’. Yet we surrender responsibility for our larger habitat to others with not the same priorities and sensitivity. Acquiescing to the concept that it’s ‘theirs’, (The Ministry of Concrete) and they will take care of it. When in reality we are it, and what happens to it, happens to us.

Would you frack and poison your house-plant and wage war over it? The Earth is a living intelligent organism, as aware of vibrations as is your sensitive plant, only more so, and we’re in it and of it. If sometimes your plant seems sad, how do you think the Earth feels? When you’re regarded as a mere commercial resource how do you manifest your full potential splendour?

The heart feels from inborn benevolence, graciously grateful for all that grows. Matures, tempered and tested by storms, distinguishing shadows as where the sun is yet to reach. Nurturing imagination as seeds of potential abundance when the wilderness will bloom.

Imagine Earth awake. That’s no mere whim, but a practical action we can take.

Depending on where you are in your heart, so the world will appear and be.

Better not leave nurture to predators who sell the carpet you walk on and only allow you a portion at a price. When, how do you ‘own’ what outlives you, earth, air, water, and fire? Arrogance is a product of ignorance and misplaced imagination.

If ‘owning’ is the name of the game, then the Earth owns us. We didn’t create ourselves without its full support and we are totally dependent on it. Gratitude and nurture is the only sane response, anything else is out of balance.

So, shall we reap or weep? Now knowing that plant power is wiser than power plant. The dictionary defines eternity as, “endless time”, which we don’t have, and it’s not, it’s simply now. Defines eternal as, “without beginning or end”, so it can’t possibly have ‘the last word’.

Better to imagine eternity as being now and all that there is and it’s not going anywhere, where else would it go? I imagine you saying, ‘there’s no time for such imaginings’, and you’d be half right. There’s no time at all. ~

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

A RING OF STONES

Stone, dense to hold in a hand’s grasp,

forming in present mindfulness.

To plant night-scented flowers,

in a circle of stones.

Some sort of portal

fills the field of vision,

to modify with no mind,

like a time window.

Washed clean by rain,

translated into pixels.

Archaic icon for meditation,

empty of all but earth.

In the fullness of nothing,

womb-like and contained.

Obscurely gestating,

inwardly the seed.

Till time takes flight

through the round window.

Over ancient future lands,

and eternities expand.

Imagination forms in folds,

fields, fallows left unfarmed,

and all is one infinity,

without a stain of industry.

Scrying in the magic mirror,

glimpse of when the dark cloud clears.

All that is defiled will wither,

when abundance reappears. ~

 ~~~~   ~~~~   ~~~~

 The Time Window.  (Painting.)  July 24. 
Starting with stones and soil, delineating contours with deep raw umber.  Encircling every molecular particle by hand and the feel of a fine brush tip.  Densifying the diversity of illuminatory texture in both the macro and micro.

With the faintest dilution of neutral greenish wash and wiping brush tip on tissue, proceeding with precision through fields and folds.

Pausing mesmerized between sleeping and eating, to photoshoot stage one of paint process.  Framing the focus for concentrated vision energy through the time window.

Three months passed since the previous painting.  Till a distant detail in The Stone Woman picture blended with the ring of stones in the garden.

Evoking in the empty mirror of imaginal mind, within a medicine womb circle ring, each white stone shape filled, washed with its own sculpted tonal ideograph.

Entering the ring and proceeding to scroll down the sky in measured bands of soft-tone grey, fine tone tuned.  Far cloud banks fade to streamlined mythical mystic horizons, where the pure whiteness recedes along a ribbon line.

 Fumbling to focus the exact tell-tale hint, that familiar blue-grey hue of distance, and a single line becomes a squeezed down horizon of far-away hills.

Where the blue-grey meets the furthest fields, entering the fringe edge of the tapestry, that first thin band contains a concentrate of the graphic glyph for skyline.

Distances are like ancient archetypes and glimpses of the Promised Land.  The further away the more mysterious and inviting.  Punctuated by rows of vague forms like notes along a stave, registering as tree-shape silhouettes to infinity.

Out under high muted skies and embedded and bonded in the biosphere, one with the vast patchwork network.  Wide central plains and puzzle pieces of panoramic pasture.

In silver singing silence, recalibrating colour combinations of enclosures like stained glass, modifying in the mode of rustic integration, fine-tuning tonalities contemplated in a quilted continuum.

Being a crazy abstract collusion of slumbering Neolithic gold and regalias of Gaelic green.  Resting to reconsider interrelated juxtapositions within the equation of wholeness.  Meticulous and mindfully modifying in silence of full attention transcending sub-vocal monologue.

Night-owling for nine nights and days, going slow, enhancing and enriching methodically without haste outside time, and augmenting what happens to emerge.

Winding up to finer and finer accounting-fors with endless gazings and dotting the details.  Stuttering down to stillness and a sigh of matt varnish.

Despite the odd hiccup quite a smooth flight.  Forging a shield in a Gaelic night.  Sublime earth-face icon simultaneously a sacred symbol of celebration, honouring Earth in the early light.

An abundance of energy focussed and sustained, contained, in a ring of stones.  May making the stones ring, resonate and resound, take flight. “ Go viral, Icon of Organic Light ! “~

               ~~~~   ~~~~   ~~~~
                 Martin Rainbowmaker.

THE WATER SOUND

On Friday, September 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Prime time to coat a small canvas taut like a drum to the touch. Lavishing layer upon layer, white on white with a fine flat brush. Patterning ghost-white dabs in the substance, organically organized in light relief. Hand-held by fire heat to steam, stretch and dry to a texture firm as crunched white snow.

Having scrutinized and scanned the surface as to its tactile touch, and on an impulse with a perfectly pared pencil proceed to apportion positions perceived in perspective. Lightly the lines implicit in the process elucidating in shorthand language, shading in where shadows go.

By contrast with the oriental adept an occidental western way of avoiding accident, by only then making meaningful marks with a brush. Not necessary but for the interesting interplay of pencil and paint. Improvising a duet of differing instruments augmenting an implied melodic line.

Sometimes with sepia but this time with black, which flashes me back to a past part of the path. Something to revive and revitalize, being in early experience a formative link between Blake, Palmer’s sepia earthly visions, Chinese landscapes, and the darkly delineated richness of stained glass, and resurfacing in bold contours through Van Gogh, all of which and more i assimilated simultaneously.

There’s a hybrid mix of marks in there, between the formalizing east and formless west but they blend their diverse languages in the same psychic soup , and to say so is itself just a form of shorthand.

Spontaneously discovering in my teens the interplay between black line and colour, where each alternately encroaches on the other until integrated, and i called it ‘overpainting.’

This painted piece, ‘The Water Sound’ was completed in two distinct sessions. The first being, the random black shorthand, the second, the overlay of individuated colour.

By progressively alternating between the two they become integrated and densities of random richness of texture can accumulate, refined down to microcosmic precision.

So it’s not just a ‘picture portraying something’, it’s a visual equation resolved and equalized. Integration exists on the level of exactness of subtle feeling, when random marks align organically, becoming evocative.

If it needed a name, which it doesn’t, how about, ‘earth-based organically hallucinatory impressionism’? That’s a truthful description, simply for whoever may argue that any ‘picture’ is just a picture, having never created one. What comes naturally doesn’t need a name.

The morning after completion i returned to add just three tiny dabs of colour, subtly eliminating a remaining ambiguity. Only then was the experiment complete, like a soft tapestry.

This brief exercise in descriptive language may at first sound abstract or obscure. Only because words barely approximate the subtle actuality of perception. Being just a pattern of pointers or a road map for imagination.

Art is a kind of alchemical experiment involving feeling, intuition, imagination. Best not approached with a rational conclusion. A ration is a limitation and a conclusion is the end of further enquiry. Imagination is the road to endless creation, and this is a signpost. Imagine that. ~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

IN THE HUMAN ZOO

On Tuesday, August 25, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Waking from an early morning dream with the recall that, we were quickly opening up the bolted tall iron double doors and going through, to the outside.

Flying out beyond infrastructure, in soft sunlight over breeze blown bushy neighbourhoods with a feel of California.

A dream version, unlike the place shown on newscasts, currently being deprived of water as if to herd human animals off that land and on to some sort of reservation.

But in this scenario we sail out over a rise, unencumbered by any sense of social self, and towards a scattering of people standing on the ground below, as we gravitate naturally to our affinity groups. When i seamlessly wake, to blue sky and nodding leaf silhouettes, visible through bedroom window curtain gap.

Sit calm and contemplative over morning coffee in uncanny quiet. It’s a welcome fine day just right for a walk in the woods. The only clue for a lead out of a lull between inspirations, something about water running over stones.

While jotting down salient dream notes before they fade, and with the inner soulful ‘not knowing’ that typically comes before creativity, the phrase ‘in the human zoo’ arises in my train of thought.

A potent phrase, and perhaps a catalyst. Along with the distinct feeling that we do in fact all live in a human zoo. Perhaps rarely seriously questioning how accurate or otherwise that metaphor may be.

The question arises and is worthy of serious consideration: In what ways exactly, if at all, does what we call society, differ from a kind of zoo? A free range zoo of course. To make any suspect notion of captivity less apparent.

We can choose to cruise between zoos, in metal vehicles designed to collectively finance and support perpetual wars between zoo keepers, waged for oil, by fracking, drilling, and mining.

The world-wide thunder of billions of infernal congestion engines made of nothing but planetary plunder. Made of mined metal, plastic, and rubber. Propelled by outmoded, explosive, prehistoric pollution. Which we pay for in more ways than money.

While being collectively proud of the illusion of personal freedom (of movement only), zooming from zoo to zoo. The convenience of service to self, snared in a vicious circle, serving the self-same system. If that’s not a captive market, then i’m a donkey.

In the big picture of overall planetary health and freedom, convenience could be the number one addiction. Not noticed when your eyes are on the road and everything else is called ‘scenery.’

The push on the pedals a vote with the feet for the zoo keepers. So familiar we call it normal. File under ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ and follow the dotted line.

Addictive convenience apart, and collectively, cars cause wars. Nothing personal. Just that zoo keepers are greedy and stuck in their ways, wanting to own the whole zoo. An intrusive inorganic affliction henceforth to be called, anti-mammalian megalomania.

It’s not the only way to go and doesn’t have to be. Since freedom of movement doesn’t require oil, unless you’re a rusty robot and not human.

So i greet the day, and hop on a bus. Gladly get off where infrastructure blends into an area of remnant ancient forest. Where water rushes down over rocks and boulders. Breathe the spray-filled air, fresh under beech trees along the banks.

 

Being the point and destination of this roundabout ramble outside the box. A much needed and purposeful pilgrimage to an inner source of inspiration. An afternoon of in depth artistic immersion in the nature of a specific place. In the spirit of quiet meditation.

Within the process of seeing, listening, taking thirty photos as an aid to creation. A further article may be needed to present another select few.

Wishing to share, hopefully, at least an essence which eludes language. With regard to our original consciousness, as one with the heart of the living planet, with appreciation of the subtle beauty of nature.

Often, when in a certain proximity to the sound of running water, i distinctly hear otherworldly music within it and internally. Many voices singing, chanting in unison continuously.

You may freely choose to dismiss as fanciful, imagined, or an aspect of white noise, but it remains, an undeniable faculty of consciousness, clearly astonishing and discernible. Ethereal, yet, as real as the leaves of the trees.

 

To my initial surprise, puzzlement, becoming enchantment, i’ve even been witness to it while on a plane at high altitude. Perhaps you have heard it too. It would be a form of self-denial to try to explain it away.

Yet it’s there to be found in the water sound, listening attentively within in right relationship, suspending sub-vocal thoughts. More profound than much of what we refer to as music, endlessly ongoing and as ambient as it gets, and always joyful.

We are reminded to revere water as a living liquid crystal which embodies memory, and being in earthly body we are largely water too, and that is our bond which is not a bondage.

There is a Celtic saying which i recall approximately. Along the lines of, ‘where the land and waters meet, is where magic happens.’ ~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.