Open your eyes to a Utopian morning, no alarm, instead a songbird, dancing on the window sill. Feathers softly shake you halfway awake, to singing angels, to early sunlight, lost in whispers left over from dreams, trumpets as loud as clouds, violins like rainbows, a harp reflecting every heartbeat, voices without words, every breath a joy, all the beauty of the world. No one left out, no one forgotten. Even if you do not know it yet, someone is waiting for you.
Why a leaf? Why not?
First, a leaf is not flat. Flat is not very natural. Flat is man made. In nature flat is the surface of a pond without a ripple of wind. Insubstantial, temporary. A flat stone perhaps but, heavy, unmoving, unchanging. The flat wall of a cave, in darkness and shadows, cut off from the light. But, a leaf glows. A leaf was alive and life is not flat. Life is three-dimensional. Two dimensions is an illusion. Life is full of angles, sides, contours and light. A fallen leaf has been full of life, has had experiences, dreams and emotions, thoughts and desires.
A fallen leaf is on the way out. It won’t be around for much longer, but then, who will? Is art meant to be permanent? Is it really about right now? Is it a longing for yesterday? Is it a longing for tomorrow? Is it a reminder to celebrate the continuity of the patterns and force fields of butterflies and flowers? You figure it out.
A lonely leaf, yellow, orange, crimson red
Only half way in this world
The other half is dead
Weighed down by gravity and time
And, the winds insist on tomorrow
And, tomorrow, and tomorrow
Even if tomorrow is the Day of the Dead
Even if the world turns into winter
Nothing to do but celebrate the dances of the seasons
And, watch while the tilt of the earth
Becomes a blanket for seeds
And, a nest for sprouting weeds
Someday, in the returning spring
The painted forest is still this morning
Involved in dreams of atoms and energy
And, acorns choosing a home in the quiet earth
While the squirrels, awaiting their decisions
Watch their reflections in the clouds
Wondering why swollen seed pods have fallen
With the brittle and discarded twigs
Into fairy rings of golden mushrooms
In the same patterns as this morning’s tea leaves
Wondering why the bits of broken mirror
And, the stones the color of the sky
Have been carried off by crows
To the place where the dream of the forest goes
To the place where the golden mushroom grows
So, tell me a secret, painted forest
Tell me something no one knows
Tell me why the seed pods fall
Tell me where the echo goes
Tell me why the dew drops fade
Tell me why the white cloud grows
Tell me what the squirrels are thinking
Tell me what the acorns chose
Tell me, tell me, painted forest
Tell me something no one knows
Tell me what the tea leaves say
Tell me what the pattern shows
And, tell me, tell me, painted forest
Why the wind no longer blows
One day while I was fishing in my soul
I found myself under a riverside tree
A single leaf fell into my lap
And, turned into a drawing
Professor of Frogology, Member of The Most Frogatious Society ::: There are no baby blue and pink frogs with pink eyes. I have checked and whether knighted or not, this is most certainly not a real frog.
Painter ::: Well, not real in the sense of a live frog, a go out and catch a real frog-flesh, real jump-up, beating frog heart and frog muscles sort of frog, one you can make into frog stew but, still real. A real painting on a real leaf.
Professor of Frogology, Member of The Most Frogatious Society ::: It may exist but, it is not real. The leaf is real but the frog is not.
Dog ::: I do not smell a frog. I do not hear a frog. I do not see a frog. I say there is no frog.
Painter ::: If it exists it must be real. Otherwise, no painting would be real, no photograph, no video, no image at all and what sort of world would that be?
Thoughtful Thomas ::: Does existence necessarily imply reality? Words exist. Not just written words, spoken words, without physical substance, without color, without smell or taste, they exist just for an instant in time. Are they real?
Dog ::: Words are real. Come. Yes. No. Good Dog. Go for a walk. Not this frog. If you don’t believe me ask another frog.
Mr. Science ::: Nothing is real. Everything exists only within your mind. You create your own reality.
Philosopher Phillbert ::: Words exist only in the realm of the mind. The brain is real. You can see that it exists. Are dreams real? Is the mind real? Or, is it beyond the real? Is it under the real, below real, before real, beneath real? Surreal.
Silly Sue ::: Surreal, of course. From the first read, I just assumed this was an auto correct issue.
I am painting with fragments of fantasy, shadows of intuition, phantoms of imagination. I am painting with auras and aromas, arias and thunder, ozone and pheromones and interstellar clouds.
I am seeking the essential life force, the mythic mind, the doorway into the wormhole. Have I perhaps found it in the lingering force fields of the leaves which the trees have returned to the earth, or is this just the surreal mind spinning illusions?
Why not? Too ephemeral. Too temporary. A fallen leaf, whether fallen from a tree or a cloud or a symphony, is already in the realm of the dead, decay and disappearance. But, what of memories? What reminder of miraculous moments, come and gone? What celebration of all that is?