Skies are sunny with a forecast of rain tomorrow. One more day to feel the sand between my toes, the rocks filtering through my hands and the lake wind rustling my hair. This solitary journey has brought new perspective, introspection and yes, I admit it, doubt.
I read many books while here. Random choices, nothing like what I expected to read. Sacred Sands by J. Ronald Engel, Isaac’s Storm – A Man, a Time, and the Deadliest Hurricane in History by Erik Larson, Native Tongue by Suzette Haden Elgin, parts of Pulphead Essays by John Jeremiah Sullivan, parts of The Forest Unseen - A Year’s Watch in Nature by David George Haskell, and An Invisible Flower by Yoko Ono. Funny how living without a tv focuses energy toward depth.
Maybe it was because I was by myself 90% of the time but each of these books gave me insight into how we are so small on earth — each tied to the other by the slimmest of evidence.
A lot of my art focuses on connections. How we talk to each other, how we are surrounded by message, how we live in a limited reality. Stories of others pass through consciousness seeking a berth to understanding. Sometimes it works, most times we are oblivious.
But back to that doubt thing. What is it about introspection that brings me this feeling of malaise? As if I am not quite there yet. Not quite ready for prime time, not quite authentic? I think it might be that my head races in so many directions and accumulates so many ideas that I feel a frantic instability when I try to settle on just one. Too much fun floating among the might have beens rather than focusing on the here it is. Or maybe I just don’t trust myself to reach the real. Too many years spent doing designery things. Making the picture balance without angst.
Those rocks I collected are silent witnesses for me this week. They remind me to remember the silence and dialog within. To channel the sense of being small in the universe. To remember the way silent witnesses spur me onto truth.
