‘Tis the season…of darkness and waiting but not of desolation. There is a richness in this darkness which gestates the brightness of hope. This painting is about planting seeds of love deep in the earth to rise into the heaven to become stars that light the path to the archetype of the Divine Child, Jesus, yes, but also new life in all its forms, the creative sparks from the unconscious that implant in the womb of mind to become a painting, a poem, a new idea, a vision of peace.
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Sometimes doing art is a kind of healing. This painting, in particular, began with a memory of a moment many, many years ago, my earliest memory, I think. My not-yet-huge family was standing on a hill watching an itinerant carnival spinning a ferris wheel and merry-go-round on a lot in Northwood. A very small me, little more than a toddler, was circling my father, round and round, my hand self-tethered to his knees. But when I looked up, my father’s face wasn’t there. A strange man stared down at me. Of course, I was terrified by my father’s seeming disappearance. It was a momentary separation, but one that carved a missingness that has lived all these years in me.
During my meditation practice recently, I saw the idea of this painting: What if I sat with God on that hill of my imagination looking at horses freed from the merry-go-round and a ferris wheel turning in the stars? What if we looked together at the missingness that lives in the center of all relationships to see there the longing for completeness as a holy quest. I think that my own father, now in heaven living in perfect love, understands this now. I feel him scooping me up to look at the stars he loved so much. “Look, Kitty, that is Orion the Hunter and that bright one in his belt is Betelgeuse, one of the great navigational stars.” It brought him home when he flew rescue missions in the South Pacific during World War II. It guides me home today.
The Small of Big
There is a big God out there
counting the stars as they pass
through the gate to universal pastures,
feeding each its eon-ration of cloudy nebulae.
I am, I am told, a distant relative of stars,
a supernova memory
in its death-belch of hydrogen and dust,
heaven’s indigestion hardened into clay.
I am a quantum in creation,
a second in divine expression,
as brief as the urge to blink,
wee as a fruit-fly’s toe,
smaller than just a thought
and justly as large.
There is a little God too
(the same one, actually)
who dances with mockingbirds
on the hot asphalt lots,
who summons tiny suns from mosses
growing between paving stones,
who dares into play the stuttering desires
for rebirth and destruction.
This little God has a big job too
shepherding stars and children,
small in stature, large in being,
across the quadrants of our park
constructing the contagion of laughter
under our earth-shining moon,
to entangle us with hope.
-Kitty Yanson


