I had the strangest dream last night
I dreamt I was walking along in the forest
and in the dim mist I saw an artist at his canvas
he was painting wildly with broad brush strokes and passionate movements
As I drew closer I saw the canvas was blank
and in bewilderment I asked, “what are you doing?”
and the man laughed as he replied, “I’m painting can’t you see”
“But you have no paint” I retorted, “the canvas is empty” The artist replied with a smile,
“Oh, that’s because you look only for the art that is visible”
Still a bit stunned and confused by the encounter
I wondered further along the path and there I encountered
a beautiful dancer poignantly posed in silent stillness
“what are you doing?” I asked
“well dancing of course,” responded the graceful and muscular figure
“But you’re not moving” I responded, “there’s no music”
“how can you be dancing if you are as still as a pristine lake?”
Without moving she gently replied
“every dance begins and ends from the still point
music is born from the space between the notes
the harmonies, the melodies, the rhythms arise from stillness,
yes I am dancing”
A bit taken aback and still pondering the wisdom behind these words
I wondered further along the path deeper into the forest
and stumbled upon a man sitting cross legged in front of a lake
writing feverishly, his pen shook with the vigorous movements of his art form
As I drew closer, and again in shock and yet half expecting it…
the page was empty, blank white
“What are you doing?” I asked the man
Barely looking up, engrossed in his work he responded curtly,
“writing can’t you see, an author I am”
“But there are no words on the page” I exclaimed
Only then did the man stop. He threw his head back in laughter,
the kind of hearty laughter that I couldn’t help but join in
and then he paused and smiled and looked at me with a deep long loving gaze
saying, “you look only for words on the page, but it is the space between the letters that gives life to the story, that gives it meaning.
I am writing you see, but the words are not that important”
If I hadn’t just encountered the strange beings earlier on my path
I might have left this man thinking he was a lunatic, stark raving mad,
but there was a serenity in his gaze and a knowing wisdom
in his words and in the space between his words
that led me to believe they knew something I did not
perhaps there was a truth to this invisible nature I could not see
not visible to my eye, but present nonetheless
with just as much vitality and force and vastness in its mystery
Like the dance floor of the dancer,
the canvas of the painter,
and the blank page of the author
perhaps there was something in the silence,
in the stillness, in the emptiness that called to me
And I heard at that moment a soft sound as if music
but I knew that only silence was there
and I was hearing not with my ears
but with another sense
that lay much deeper
and with that, I too began my art
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