Awakening gliding across misty depths,
Never stopping, moving inexorably onward,
Rain gently falls. Mesmerised I gaze,
Hills rising into gorges on the Yangtze shore.
All images taken with a Mamiya 6 on Fuji Provia 100F
Photo taken with a Chamonix 045F1 View Camera, using a Nikkor-SW 90mm f/8 lens, on Shanghai 100 film, and developed in a mix of Xtol and Rodinal.
Is touched by love
Both knowing and unknowing, and neither knowing nor unknowing,
Each beat is felt on the shore of life.
The heart is not empty
Nor is it vacant, unoccupied, loveless, or a lifeless form,
But each flutter flows leaving a palimpsest of moments
Left behind, like fear, anger and desire, when compassion takes us to the other shore.
[Instructions for contemplation: Santideva observed “How can there be real existence in something factitious like a reflection, which is only seen in conjunction with something else and not seen in its absence?”
May you shine with diamond exploding radiance,
May your heart be open beneath a clear blue sky.]
one zero one
zero one two
left right left
right true false true false true false
four five six seven eight
one two three four five six seven eight
one two three four five six no
no eight no nine
(Instructions: two legs walk stepping out a pace, attach a body, then a head, eyes, ears, consciousness – float forward in space. Landing is difficult.)
Near a small brook in Wiltshire, an oak grows adjacent to the path leading upwards through fields of wheat in summer to the West Kennett Long Barrow. Hanging from its branches druids tie ribbons in thanks for good fortune or to celebrate a blessing.
Climbing the hill I fell into a reverie recalling a favourite oak that I would climb which grew in a local park near the playground as a child. It was shady in summer, and bare in winter, after losing its leaves and acorns in autumn. How I loved to fill my pockets with the acorns as a boy, and, even as a teenager collect them on my way to school to carve tiny faces in them with my pen knife. One day I discovered that nails had been driven into the playground oak to make it easier to climb. I recollect feeling wounded for the tree, and saddened by the harm inflicted into its bark.
On reaching the barrow, I returned from these reminisces to enter the ancient tomb. Inside flowers had been left and a few coins by druidic visitors. As you do, and hoping it would not be found, I left a coin on a high shelf in a dark corner in thanks for the blessings of being alive, having a wonderful partner and children, visiting the long barrow and neolithic henges, and for the wonder of oak trees and acorns.
All photographs taken using a Holga PC 120 on Ektar 100 film.
You are full of grace…
The street has its own message. Sometimes the shadowy silences hidden in alleyways and alcoves is punctuated by the voice of art. Elsewhere the bustle of crowds, and sounds of the city are erased by a message left on a wall from an often anonymous artist, that briefly brings moments of hope, joy, whimsy or insight, delivering us from our angst.
I wonder if the crowds queuing in Barcelona’s old city to enter the museums of famous artists such as Picasso view the messages gracing the streets with appreciative eyes. Visitors rush from one museum to another, hustle through the markets, or ramble down the famous boulevards with their hawkers, yet in the Ciutat Vella I felt myself slowly surrendering to its embrace.
In other hours, I reminisce now from afar of the homeless men who would greet me as I walked past Sant Pere de les Puelles with their dog lying on the steps of the basilica, the toy maker sitting on the curb, the art class quietly painting in the Plaça de Sant Agustí Vell, or a canto being sung by a busker advertising opera classes. From early in the morning to late at night, each hour brought its own mood and memory.
Glancing at the pavement, covers for the water mains have their own artistry, as do the embellishments of door knockers, street lamps, water troughs, and the reminder of workers on a cathedral door.
A city is more than its landmarks. It is its people. It is the quiet dignity that graces the street in unconditional love through the celebration of art. Each world has its own eternity to be graffitoed breaking down the walls that bound us, liberate, and remind us we are filled with grace.
Llenas eres de gracia – you are full of grace.