Photograph by Georgia Michalicek shown at the 11th SVAC Annual Fall Art Exhibition
Artist Commentary
It is only through the limitations that we create with our mind that we do not see the beauty in all things. It is only through the chatter that we listen to in our mind that we do not hear the sounds as music. It is only through the walls and the fences we build around our hearts that we do not open to the love that we are. It is only through the lies that we believe to be truth that we do not experience the magic and miracles that happen in our life every day. It is only through the limitations that we create with our mind that we do not see the beauty in all things.
Whatever thought is in your mind right now – follow it to the end – and wait. Something will happen. Whatever thought is in your mind right now – follow it to the end – and wait. Something will happen in the spaces in between.
Breathe deeply, and know that you are limitless.
Namaste
Dry Beaver Creek
Inspired by “The Spaces In Between”
Written and performed by slam poet Gary Every of Sedona, Arizona
as part of the Illusion of Reality event
The river rages, rocks roll
while tree roots struggle to maintain a hold
Water rushes by
as leaves race slowly, so slowly towards the sky.
The tree trunk is split
from where a rock hit
and the bark grew around it
until floodwaters pushed the rock away
leaving only this hole to stay
This tree has grown
this hole in its trunk
like the fossilized bone
of a long forgotten stone
who rolls and roams,
geology without a home.
The river runs swift and strong
unaware the snowmelt will soon be gone
and that during the dog days of summer
this riverbed will be bone dry,
miles of stones covered with carcasses of crawfish
who have died and dried.
This stench of death does not slow the crawl
of the leaves towards the heavens
botany blissfully unaware in summer
of the impending siren song of gravities call
when brightly colored leaves tumble and fall
When the river runs it runs as fast as it can
When the river runs it runs as far as it can
Water leaps stone
in giant frothing foaming clouds
that resemble the heads of horses,
liquid equines galloping down the canyons
a herd of stampeding watery mustangs
rampaging down the riverbed,
echoes of waterfall hooves
filling the canyon from wall to wall.
Spanish medieval writers believed
that if you sat beside a creek
and made a wish
that your dream would float like a boat
the entire length of the stream
until the stream grew into a river
and the river drops into a harbor
Then the harbor drifts into the sea
and there your dream just floats…
Floats..
Until the night comes
and all the stars of the heavens
are reflected atop the inky black water.
Dreams surf the waves
cresting mountains of water
which splash into the sky
sailing atop the clouds
dreams rising all the way to the moon
where those frothing foaming horse heads
gallop and cavort across the lunar landscape
What better place to plant a hole,
my hole of a soul, borrowed from a tree by a stream
where a rock once lived.
There is no better place to plant my whole soul
than in the middle of this bleak lunar landscape,
cratered by meteorites
I am anxious to see what will grow from that hole
see if we can turn the moon green.