For the past year, I've been taking baby steps toward the most epic adventure I've ever considered: 13 weeks of surfing in South Africa and Mozambique. The financials and logistics seemed insurmountable, and that, of course, is before all the conditioning about why such things are not what responsible 37-year-old women do.
Soon, the daydream turned into internet research, which resulted in requesting information, and then floating the idea by trusted sources. (I find it easier to ignore the fear brewing in my brain when someone with distance and objectivity has weighed in on my plans.) Throughout this process, my philosophy has been that if I'm headed in the right direction, The Universe will make a way. And if this trip is a horrible idea, then that will be revealed too. I must have Uni's seal of approval, because I'm boarding a plane two weeks from today.
I've noticed my anxiety creeping up, which lately looks like a little more time on social media than I'd like. When I found myself further down the digital rabbit hole this morning, I (thankfully) was able to sit down and get some paint on paper. I had no end-goal in mind, but liked the story that developed in my head as the images appeared, so I'm sharing them here.
The watercolor came first. Not surprising -- I've been on a watercolor kick since last summer. As I started putting the India Ink on the page, it reminded me of a thin, narrow rope dangling. I used more water to push the ink around a bit, and felt like it was the beginning of a bird, a crane perhaps.
Before long, I realized I liked the way the ink was distributed, but the image no longer made sense. I rotated my page and suddenly things clicked in my brain. (Funny how a change of perspective can fix things so quickly.)
I see something/someone being fished out of murky, black sea. They're suspended by a thin cord, almost invisible, but strong enough to do the job. The orange started a nice contrast to the aqua color, but it felt like a divine spark dotting the creature being rescued. It seemed to me that the bright orange presence would be supporting the connection point for the rescue line.
I see this as a metaphor for the connection I have to the source. It can be so thin at times that I wonder if exists at all. Even when I can tell there's something there, keeping me suspended in space, I doubt it will be sufficient to hold my weight. This energy is not only outside my body -- I have some sparks of it in myself, even when I'm bedraggled and in need of help.
That's what I see. Someone else may find a completely different image, or nothing but scribbles on a page. All of it (including the spiritual concepts I layer on top) are up to individual interpretation. That's my favorite thing about art, and life, really -- we each get to have our own experience. The more focus on my own path, the less I care about what anyone else thinks about how I'm living it. And the fewer judgements I have about how they're approaching theirs.