Autumn hues awash in pale blues converge in the southland. Relentless winds impart winter’s chill while the last leaves still cling to near naked branches. Seasons do not quite give up. Instead the page of the calendar turns. Remnants of one season linger long into the other. Frost crystals shine and the drip from the fence line. Brushstrokes of smalt blue and cadmium yellow are broken by sepia shadows. My morning meditations begin at dawn, first light.
Turning northward at the four-way stop, I begin my drive. The sun begins to rise, peaking through a dense and overgrown tree line. Swaths of violet cover the sky. Nature’s ode to Rothko. Words from a new poem return to me. By eight a.m. the light slowly illuminates the studio. I retrieve the poem, a piece of printed folded paper amid the pages of a book I’ve brought with me. I read it again. I write down notations. I study and sketch and continue my painting.
I pause and think back in memory to when this form of meditation began. I’m compelled to question when did the pattern shift, expand to become what it now is. A ritual once deliberately formed for thoughtful dedication became a sacred space. Recognizing time and practice has reshaped and informed the process. More is achieved.