We are all born with hunger. The physical kind, yes, for mother’s milk but also for something more later in life that the physical does not seem to satisfy though many of us go after the physical with a vengeance. Then there is the emotional hunger for a mate, for lots of friends, for children. I could go on and on talking about desire in its many forms, all grounded in the great desire for LIFE. Hiding in all these desires, though, is a deeper longing for something that goes beyond, the MORE one cannot quite name. I call it God, but that is only one of many names. It took me a good deal of my life, many years of meditation, and the remediation of wayward goals and mistaken directions for me to understand that all of my longings are really longing for God who is like a bird that gives glimpses of its beauty up close but flies beyond, just out of reach.
This is what this first painting was made to say. I had some leftover painted rust from an earlier painting and spread it on another canvas put aside until an idea struck. The rust felt like my aging body with its chattering joints and chugging motion every time I looked at that canvas on the shelf. But I am good today because my living has become more deeply told in a bigger story. I still feel the longing but it is a joyous longing when I can get quiet enough to listen for the whoosh of a bird’s wing that has been flying with me all along just out of reach and wholly present.
This painting of Our Lady, Gatherer of Spirit, came after the one above. The trees here are sunk into texture paste and the light comes from all directions shining on her love of birds. I envy my friend Joan for the hummingbirds that visit her deck. I have set out red-juiced feeders and planted the tubular flowers that are supposed to attract them. No luck. However, there is a fish crow that hangs out in the backyard tree who yells at me with his native two-noted twang. He watches me watch him. I am grateful for his noisy company.
I read a lot of the 14th-century mystic Julian of Norwich (“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”) She was an anchoress who lived in a tiny shelter attached to St. Julians church in Norwich. It is said that there was a window that faced the street through which she offered spiritual counsel to people who passed by. In this painting I see her in the morning, drinking a cup of tea maybe and singing with her friend the yellow bird. I am convinced it was a happy song, full of joy.
