I lie hidden in the secrecy of Dickenson Square. My back is leaning against a dead tree trunk while catching the low wintery sun. Icy winds are gliding over my head where up above squirrels use the tree tops as their highways across this small park just behind our house.
Leo Tolstoy is the companion at my side, ‘A Confession and other Religious Writings’. It slipped out of my hands as his words entered my unconscious. In the dreaming that goes on behind my closed eyes a new version of his words starts to take shape.
Reading is just the beginning of the process after which the read starts to dissolve into our nervous system finding its way to the flesh and blood.
After which it solidifies in the juices that render our lives to deep tones of tastefulness.
Between the decay that happens beneath me and the rise of new life above me I am spreading out in the moist soil full of little creatures while shades of green appear on the branches above. My behind is rooted firmly in that richness feeding my head and all that sprouts off from it.
Belief and true religion is this what defines our relation between our finite lives and the infinite surrounding us, says Tolstoy. We are all equal resting our moral grounds on the moist beds of love.
Love wrote a friend the other day, equals attention. The pure, undivided, non-judgemental attention I would guess, we give and receive.
Attention shows my child, is the being in concordance with. Sharing the same space, the same embrace, the same dance even when the experiences coming from it might be all different.
Attention, I learned these past two weeks, is what makes you built a living piece of furniture, and once build it never stops attending to you.
I set out with a clear idea of what I wanted to make from the scrap wood I found on our street and along the canal nearby. At every stage of the collecting, sawing, scraping of paint, sanding, handling the wood the outcome changed direction purely by attending to it all. A process with time to linger and dream.
The limitations of the tools I had available, the shortage of material, the dreams I had at night and random things I came across during the day together with the well-intended interventions of my two year old son, were all part of shaping its final outcome. A form I can only describe as ‘organic’ is if it had grown as a living and maturing being of which I knew not anymore, once finished, how it had come into being. Something that would be impossible to repeat in a same way.
Uniqueness and love, together with attention and limitations are the ingredients I believe for that which lives and finds meaning.
Leo Tolstoy is the companion at my side, ‘A Confession and other Religious Writings’. It slipped out of my hands as his words entered my unconscious. In the dreaming that goes on behind my closed eyes a new version of his words starts to take shape.
Reading is just the beginning of the process after which the read starts to dissolve into our nervous system finding its way to the flesh and blood.
After which it solidifies in the juices that render our lives to deep tones of tastefulness.
Between the decay that happens beneath me and the rise of new life above me I am spreading out in the moist soil full of little creatures while shades of green appear on the branches above. My behind is rooted firmly in that richness feeding my head and all that sprouts off from it.
Belief and true religion is this what defines our relation between our finite lives and the infinite surrounding us, says Tolstoy. We are all equal resting our moral grounds on the moist beds of love.
Love wrote a friend the other day, equals attention. The pure, undivided, non-judgemental attention I would guess, we give and receive.
Attention shows my child, is the being in concordance with. Sharing the same space, the same embrace, the same dance even when the experiences coming from it might be all different.
Attention, I learned these past two weeks, is what makes you built a living piece of furniture, and once build it never stops attending to you.
I set out with a clear idea of what I wanted to make from the scrap wood I found on our street and along the canal nearby. At every stage of the collecting, sawing, scraping of paint, sanding, handling the wood the outcome changed direction purely by attending to it all. A process with time to linger and dream.
The limitations of the tools I had available, the shortage of material, the dreams I had at night and random things I came across during the day together with the well-intended interventions of my two year old son, were all part of shaping its final outcome. A form I can only describe as ‘organic’ is if it had grown as a living and maturing being of which I knew not anymore, once finished, how it had come into being. Something that would be impossible to repeat in a same way.
Uniqueness and love, together with attention and limitations are the ingredients I believe for that which lives and finds meaning.
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