Healing Through Art (HTA)
Featured Work
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healing... gratitude of love and light. by aspectsoftmk
to be full of gratitude is a beautiful experience… to feel it while in the worst of pain is a lesson and a gift, unlike any other…and also, one that i hope i will never have to go thru again. / one month ago i had a total knee replacement in my left leg. it has not been easy but then it is not supposed to be…is it.;)) i had a severe allergic reaction to the bandaging…but, is ok now and i am doing learning to walk again with matilida, what i named my new knee…and figuring out how to bond with a peace of steel that will give me back my freedom of mobility..and cussing the pain that goes with it. / it has been the kind of challenge where i have questioned everything and many times just cried.. / ...i want to thank you for the love, the light and the healing energy you have been sending me..it is always felt and i am so very grateful. i feel the healing taking place and soon matilida ..will be able to dance. slowly i will be back to red bubble…and to your fantastic heART…i believe in the power of positive thought, of feeling and sending energies across the world, i believe in the power we have to heal..i believe in kindness and love. i believe we all have the insight and strength to handle anything that we are challenged with. / ..........thank you to my sisters and my brothers for all you are and do with me.xx / thank you to liesbeth for helping me with this heART…for the movement..;))) and the gentle touch of the water.xx thank you again with love and touches of light…xx / terri
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With Out Perfection by Elizabeth Bravo
15” x 15” Mixed oil and acrylic on canvas. / As I look at a table filled with glasses / Not a coaster in sight / I realize, it doesn’t faze me / Not anymore / I’m not sure when it became “OK” / Ok, to see the stains on the carpet / They’ve become part of the pattern / It’s hard to tell if they’re stains or flowers / Maybe it’s my eyesight / Failing as I get older. / But I do see it / I see it all / I see the piles of laundry / In a mountain of dirty and clean / There is no separation / So we just grab what smells ok / And rewash what seems to be wrinkled / Beyond recognition / It becomes a ridiculous game trying to match the socks / I think about putting an add on match dot com, / Desperately seeking single tan polyester sock, / All others need not apply. / Then there’s the issue of the fur. / My cats seem to have a factory / Making fur is a constant production. / It floats like clouds / A constant breeze at floor level / Keeps the fur moving like ghosts in and out of sight. / I start to imagine / Families of rats hidden in corners / Knitting sweaters for their young / The fur is so readily available / It must seem like a wonderful store to them. / When I finally have a moment to do something, / I collect what I can manage of the fur remnants / For a second I feel guilty. / Will the rats have enough? / Maybe I should put what’s left out for the birds. / / When did it change? / I wonder…… / / I remember the look in my sister’s eyes / She warned me not to set out on a quest for perfection / She warned me that the act of pleasing / Would never end / It was a burden I would carry / A heavy burden she would say (all knowing) / And even though she was only 8 years older, / I could see how it was wearing on her / You’ll try to put it down she would tell me, / Over and over, / But perfection is hard to put down / I heard her words, but didn’t heed them, / I remembered the love / Shining like diamonds / In my parent’s eyes / When I pleased them / Nothing else seemed to matter. / But even then as they looked at me / With proud smiles / I knew that I would have to turn around / Turn around and face the enemy camp / My other siblings were right behind me / My quest for perfection made them look bad / They would sneer and throw daggers / That pierced my heart / Even when I started to understand / How impossible it would be to keep up with it / I carried on / I carried perfection into adult hood. / / As the years passed, / I took pride in this impossible task / Perfection as an adult meant / You were a juggler of knives / People were always amazed at my skill / I could throw at least 10 in the air at a time. / Juggling and juggling as my friends looked on / They would even ask me to teach them / So I did, but that added another knife, / I didn’t care, / I knew what I was doing. / / The first time I dropped a knife I ignored it / I didn’t get cut and no one seemed to notice / But soon all of the knives would start to fall / Cut after cut, I would pick them up again / It was the most difficult time of my life / With every knife I dropped, / I was handed two more / They lay on the floor around my feet / Now and then I was able to pick a few up again. / Juggling and juggling / For the first time I understood / How one could find themselves out on the street / With out a home, with out a job / They were all people who stopped juggling. / At least that’s what I thought….so…I kept juggling. / / At one point I didn’t care anymore / I had to stop. / The exhaustion was overwhelming. / I finally let go. / The knives lay at my feet / A reminder of every failure in my life. / I sat there for days waiting for the doorbell to ring / I knew someone would surely show up and take my life away. / I would lose my family / And everything I held dear. / But as days turned into months, / I realized / No one was coming. / God was not going to send the anticipated bolt of lighting. / And every day that the sun rose up into the sky, / I realized I had a chance to keep going. / Not to juggle, but to just move forward. / / / Those days are hazy in my memory, / But I do remember moments. / I remember the amazing silence. / I sat for hours on the couch, / Just listening to the soft snore of my cats / When I ate, food tasted better. / When I sent a note to a friend, / They seemed to know not to expect anything else from me. / It was a revelation. / I couldn’t believe that my world didn’t end. / Everyone around me just seemed to accept what I could give. / They didn’t ask for more, because I wasn’t offering. / And then one day I noticed….with a little excitement / That I didn’t mind if the glasses remained on the table / A little longer then they needed to. / I noticed that the rings made a beautiful design. / They added texture to and otherwise boring surface, / I didn’t mind the piles of magazines / Or the mountain of laundry. / I knew I would get to it someday. / For the first time I realized that life would go on / With out perfection… / Just one day at a time / With one foot forward… / As days go by, I see a tee shirt everywhere I go / It seems like an ironic note from God / “Life is good” / I know he’s telling me to remember…. / No matter what “Life is good”
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Love, Not fade away by Maureen Maliha
So there I was, mindlessly going through Christmas things, deciding which little ornaments and decorations to photograph for cards, and I found something else… a little tiny plastic frame that contained a photograph of me and my husband Christopher, who passed away. / Oh, how I disliked that little, faded snapshot of us… but my mother, seeing the best in both Christopher and I, stuck it in that little Christmas frame anyway, and hung it from her tree. When she died, I took some of her Christmas things, and did not realize until tonight, that the little frame I had so complained about, was stuffed into one of the brightly colored boxes. / I was over-taken with the need to share …. and post photos of her with Christopher, and with me—and Christopher and I on our wedding day. / She died this past April 14th—on what would have been his birthday. / It snowed on our wedding day. Heavy—large flakes… We were slipping, sliding, down, up, down hills in the limo as we headed toward the tiny church where we were married, not terribly far from here in the mountains. / And then the sun shone… it brightened the hills and mountains.. Flakes flew around us, as the sun warmed them into tiny drops of water that glistened blue, red, white, gold. / I could have scanned and fixed and cropped these photographs.. but why? / Photos fade. Love does not fade. Love, truly, never dies. / /
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Touching by CLiPiCs
Seventy Six years seperate the hands Tyler, just entered his teens and on his way to manhood, tenderly holds his Great Grandfather’s hand, Ramnaugh 89 Years old and very close to leaving us now, it was hard to see this big bear of a man I admire for his courage and fortitude lying in a hospital bed so frail now Tyler sat by his hospital bed for an hour holding his hand and just being there for him while he dozed This isn’t Tyler’s first experience of mans mortality, but it is the first one that is touching him with full understanding Ramnaugh has cancer of the lungs, most probably caused from his job in a plastics factory, and will be gone in weeks, but still, even with his time running out, he has a sparkle in his eyes, and was flirting with nurses :-) Love ‘N’ Laughter Kriss ♥ London 12-11-2009, Taken on my mobile phone Featured / in Healing Through Art Many Thanks to the Hosts Songwriter / and the lovely Lynne Moore
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Dawning New 3 by Miles Moody
Featured in Beauty in Nature group Nov 2009 Featured in Healing thru Art group Nov 2009 Nikon D90, 35 mm, ISO 100, 1/160 sec @ f 8, Gitzo tripod, bogen pistol grip head, Blue Ridge Parkway west of Asheville, NC. (Continued from Dawning New 2) The following is a direct translation of the architects’ actual account of the architect’s encounter with the third stonemason as detailed in the memoir: / / “After a lengthy period of searching, I happened upon a third stonemason. I asked him about the nature of his business. He paused to set his chisel aside and looked up at me thru eyes filled with a quality hard for me to describe; was it wonder looking back at me? At any rate, the mason replied saying, ‘As you can see, I’m seated here before my block of stone which measures a meter by half a meter by half a meter. Come,’ he said to me. ‘Put your left hand upon the chiseled surface of the stone, and feel the fine dust still clinging here. Take notice of its subtle grating between your fingertips? Sniff gently of the dust. Just like that you have taken a bit of the stone in with your breath. The stone is a part of you now. Allow the shutters of your eyes to close a moment and sense if you will the origins of this stone. As the dust slides beneath your fingers on the smooth surface of the stone, so do layers of rocky surface of the earth move against themselves. There is collision and upward thrusting as the rock strata reaches ever higher, flinging up as the steep sides of a birthing mountain. Eons of time pass. Rains fall. The sun shines. Great evergreen trees thrust their roots deep into the fissure that has formed between our stone and the face of the mountainside. Snows gather about the feet of the trees and ice fills in the crevasse. The fissure expands as ice thaws only to freeze once again. Time marches onward until that moment when the mother-side of the mountain gives birth to our stone. It tumbles free; it slides away as the heart of the planet itself calls it forth to meet with its greater purpose. The quarrymen find it there on the hillside overlooking the valley and load it into a sturdy wagon pulled by a team of draft horses who plod a great distance over the surface of the earth. Stone lies beneath the passing wheels. Stone witnesses the journey. Our stone arrives here to meet with its destiny, to be shaped, to be caressed by my steel, until such time as it is ready.’ “He paused but a moment,” wrote the architect, “to sweep his hand about him to indicate the team of men working at his side. ‘You see, my friend,’ the stonemason said, ‘We prepare the stones that will form the front entryway to the cathedral. This very stone here before me shall be the keystone that locks the arch in place.’ “I closed my eyes and he took my hand,” continued the builder, “as he said to me, ‘Now place your right hand here. Can you feel the life of the mountain coursing thru this stone between your hands? The feel is very subtle. You must be patient and allow its voice to emerge. Can you see the stone as it once lay there high up on the mountainside, basking in the sunlight, resting in the shade of the great evergreens? They sway this way and that in the wind as day falls away into night. Dawn erupts; the sun peers over the horizon in radiant splendor. Smatterings of clouds ride the sunrise in hues of orange and pink and purple. The brilliance of the sun coalesces into a pinpoint as you gaze about you at a vista highlighted in gold. Shadows lift as warm light sweeps down the mountainside and into the valley as the sun nestles for a moment in the crook of a distant range, deepening the color. On your right hand in the distance, a waterfall plummets hundreds of feet, its waters never reaching the valley below, but caught up as midst in the wind and swept away into the waxing light of the sun. It is the magic hour when the sun’s light so caresses the earth that new sight becomes possible to those who will permit it. Green never looked quite as green – red never quite so red as it does in this first light of day; the blue of the sky seems alive in the dance of color there as well. Look into the eye of the sun in the first of its glimmering and sense if you will the destiny that this stone has come to fulfill.’ “The blank screen of my mind opens,” the architect recounts. “I see a grand cathedral with its doors wide to my approach. The beat of my heart quickens as I draw near. The polished grain and glistening bronze fixtures of massive doors beckon with their beauty. It is the stone overhead that holds my eye. I sense something grandly intangible increasing within me as I stride beneath the archway. I’m thru the entryway and a vista opens up in the center of my chest; I settle into it and feel the mountainside bathed in sunlight. I feel the peace of the trees moaning in the wind. The mist of the waterfall refreshes my face. There is the fullness of beauty now within me. I feel the nature of the source of all things. I feel the beauty instilled within all creation. I know in that moment that what I feel is a part of me and I’m a part of it. I want more. I want it to deepen. I’ll do anything to have it… “My eyes open and I gaze in awe upon the aged and grizzled face of the master stonemason. My voice is barely a whisper as I feel the question coming up in me. Everything depends upon an answer, so much so that I’m afraid to ask. But ask it, I shall, and I do…. “‘Please, I beg you, sir, teach me to build as you build.’ The memoir’s final words are these: “His smile is the radiance of a sunrise in answer to my call, and I settle down by his side to learn.” And so it was that I began to learn how resentment must give way to acceptance if I am to find joy in being more of the truth of who we are. / ____ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase.
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Dawning New 2 by Miles Moody
Featured in Healing thru Art group Nov 2009 Nikon D90, 62 mm, ISO 100, 1/125 sec @ f 2.8, Gitzo tripod, bogen pistol grip head, Pisgah National Forest north of Brevard NC (Continued from Dawning New 1) The architect approached the first stonemason and asked him, “Sir, tell me if you will about the essence of your work.” The stonemason threw down his hammer in frustration and glared at the architect. “The essence of my work, you ask. Well, normally I wouldn’t be bothered by the likes of you, but this damn rock is sucking the very life out of me! I need a break just to gather my strength so as to assault again this stubborn bugger with all I’m worth. It’s just a rock measuring a meter by a half meter by a half meter, and yet, you’d think it was Gibraltar’s Rock itself the way it chips and hacks away at me with every blow I take at it; refusing to give way to me like it was born to ruin my reputation and make general misery of my life! I’m on a schedule here, with bills to pay and mouths at home to feed, but I’m at the grinding stone edging a dull chisel more than I am at my work here! My wife nags for this and that, but all I seem to get for myself is a dozen more lines on my face and a hundred score more gray hairs on my head. It’s wearing me out, this work, and I don’t care who knows it. Sometimes I think I’d be better off begging in the streets. Now be off with you, whoever you are, so I can beat my head once more against this wall of a rock I’m cursed to work with.” After some travel and searching it seems the builder located the second of the most reputable three of the stonemasons’ guild and inquired of him in like manner. “What is the nature of your work as a stonemason, sir? Please, tell me about your work.” “Yes, my friend,” said the second mason with a smile. “It’s very simple really. I’ve got a stone here presently, measuring a meter by a half by a half that I’m required to shape to specifications. And though it may seem like simple, even boring work to some, it blesses me with a means to live and to support my family. You see, though it is much the same, day in and day out, I’m able to provide a home for my dear wife and an education for my children. My father worked and saved just as I do and it was out of his sacrifice that I was able to have more in life than he. I’m confident that my children will rise to enjoy lives even better than the one I’m living. However ordinary, this work gives to me in this way, and so it is that I’m content to give it all I have to give in return.” The following is a direct translation of the architects’ actual account of the architect’s encounter with the third stonemason as detailed in the memoir: (continued with Dawning New 3) / ___ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase.
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Dawning New 1 by Miles Moody
Featured in Healing thru Art Nov 2009 Nikon D90, 145 mm, ISO 100, 1/500 sec @ f 2.8, Gitzo tripod, bogen pistol grip head, Pisgah National Forest north of Brevard NC I was sitting on the edge of Black Balsam Mountain not far from the Blue Ridge Parkway and looking down on Looking Glass Rock in the distance. My heart was full to near bursting with what I had just witnessed of the glory of a new day dawning. Clouds parted and the warmth of the sun fell upon my little world and within seconds a score of birds was chirping and whirling about me as if thrilled with the prospects of a new day. It occurred to me then that perhaps the eyes and ears can only take in so much and then it becomes the work of the heart to translate the vast reminder of what is here to behold. To say that I felt gratitude in that moment in a bit of an underestimation of my experience because the fact is that it had not been too terribly long ago that my heart was closed leaving me with little awareness of this ‘essence of so much more available’ that I am struggling here to describe. I wasn’t conscious then of how I had made my life about seeking after solutions in a particular manner that kept my focus ever upon what was wrong with me. This approach to life seemed to arise out of a belief that once I cut away everything that was wrong with me, then what remained would be only that which was right. This seek and destroy mentality wasn’t working for me; I was guided by my resentment and all I seemed to find was more in me to judge. I wasn’t cutting away false identity like a master sculptor chiseling away at a block of stone; I was simply adding to my sense of brokenness. Somewhere in the depths of subtlety there was this certainty that I could find that which I was truly seeking with a new approach, with a new orientation. I’m told that the origins of the story ‘Three Stonemasons’ can be traced back to Rachel Naomi Remen in her book “Kitchen Table Wisdom.” As I sat in the sunlight bathing the slopes of Black Balsam Mountain, my own personal version of this wonderful story began to percolate. The following is that recounting as it came to me that day. Three Stonemasons / (As told by Miles A Moody) While archiving the contents of a library dating back to the seventeenth century, I came upon a rather well preserved memoir written by a famous builder of that time. Thumbing thru the aged parchment, I was captivated by his account of a pivotal time in his life. It seems that the wealthy nobleman, to whom he was contracted, summoned his chief architectural engineer and set before the builder a task of great importance. “Go forth and discover the means by which the greatest buildings are accomplished,” instructed the prince. “Once you are confident of this wisdom, return to me and we shall construct the finest testament to God’s love that has ever been and that will ever be.” The architect’s account continued, explaining that he did not understand his employer’s attitude, for he had already many accomplished works to his credit, indeed so consummate the builder was he as to be widely accepted by his peers as one of the foremost of that day. He felt insulted, he confessed, and though he wrestled thru many sleepless nights, it appears that he ultimately accepted the assignment. He elected to begin with a thorough study of techniques and practices of the stonemasons, and sought out the three best the field had to offer (continued with Dawning New 2). / ____ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase.
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Rabbit Dreams by MelDavies
Coloured Pencil and Ink on 280 gsm Glass Ivory Paper - / (40cm x 60cm) Worked on this one for over a week, through the wee small hours of the mornings. All my art is cathartic, it’s how I balance my life, creating is my reason to go on. When I’m up I create, when I’m down I create, creativity is my balance. I did this as one of my first experiments into coloured pencil art, and found the whole ‘colouring in’ process so very relaxing and calming. I couldn’t help but feel happyness and joy while doing this. I spent every moment I could as a child, laying on my tummy, drawing, colouring. Nothing has changed, I’m still laying on my tummy, drawing, colouring (lol) Views: 703 as at 25-11-2009 / Favourites: 38 as at 25-11-2009 FEATURED in ‘Coloured Pencil Art’ (June 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Fantastic Primitive Art’(June 2009) / FEATURED in ‘First Things’ (June 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Hand Drawn or Painted Art of Happiness & Joy’ (June 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Freedom to Shine’ (June 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Fantastic Primitive Art’ (July 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Colour Me a Rainbow’ (July 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Creative Cards’ (July 2009) / FEATURED In ‘Globes, Spheres and Curves’ (July 2009) / FEATURED in ‘The New Beat Generation’ (August 2009) / FEATURED in ‘Spectacular Spirals’ August, 2009 / FEATURED in ‘Healing through Art’ November, 2009 / FEATURED in ‘Oh so emotional (happy)’ November, 2009 / FEATURED in ‘Healing through art (HTA)’ November, 2009 /
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Surrender to the Universe 16x20 acrylic on canvas by eoconnor
This painting was created a year ago. I had begun to paint in 2005 after a life threatening illness but could not continue, untill I did this painting. Since surrendering I have created a piece of art daily. This painting has a lot of personal meaning, and one I look at daily to remind myself LIFE is good. Featured. / 1.Healing through Art
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My Inner 9 Year Old by Kieran O'Connor
PLEASE VIEW IT LARGE ON BLACK HERE Nikon d80 / 3 exposures created from 1 raw in lightroom, then tone mapped in photomatix. This was a personal project, you can read the story behind it here / Final work done in photoshop, the child is photoshopped in. / Everything else is, as it seems :)
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Fragile by ellcot
Featured in Healing through Art – Nov.2009 / In order to take this picture, I had to finally bring my deceased brother’s guitar out of hiding and into the light of day. The painful memories are still there, but I can accept them now. In life Ray was able to show me the way toward happiness despite his own inability to reach it. I am extremely grateful for that precious gift from him. It laid hidden in my closet for 14 years. I didn’t have the courage to take it out or even open the case. No one knew what to do with it – including me. But I knew how much it meant to him, so I kept it. We were four. The eldest was the best. The best artist; the best author; the best philosopher; the best father-figure. Me in the middle. Melancholy, mediocre, mute. Sis was also in the middle, but she was defiant. A misfit in this family of misfits – determined to love and be loved, to live and let live. The youngest was Ray. Raymond Jeffrey. He had the grandest name, but that was about it. It would take a novel to tell the story. Maybe someday I’ll have the strength for that but not now – just suffice it to say that we all had some pretty deep scars. But Ray was mortally wounded by the age of 5. Just once, when he was visiting me up in Toronto, we tried to talk to each other about our shared past. But not long into the conversation I realized that he had no recollection, no hint of what had transpired so long ago. It was all buried very deep in his subconscious. No wonder the drugs and alcohol had never given him any peace. A panic attack was always just around the corner waiting to jump out and shatter his sleep-walking days. But boy could he play that guitar! When he picked it up he was transformed. The music healed – at least for a while. His fragile spirit soared as his fingers sang to the world! I loved to hear him play and was sure that he’d be famous someday. He tried his best. He really did. He kept the nightmares at bay as long as he could. His friends talked about what a good soul Ray was; how he was always there to help out and he never complained about anything. They even said Ray seemed to be doing much better those last few months – as though he had made some kind of breakthrough. He showed a contentment and calm they had never seen before. Then the news came like a slap in the face. It had all been meticulously planned – there is no doubt. He must have finally decided that the battle could not be won and chose his retreat. Afterall, forty-one years is a long time to fight. A footnote: When I finally mustered the courage to open Ray’s guitar case and face the memories, I found a letter inside. I’d forgotten about it. I’d forgotten that he had casually told me he didn’t need this guitar anymore (he had others he said) and would I please take it and sell it? The note was very short and contained a bit of information about the guitar for appraisal purposes. But then I noticed the date – he wrote it just a few months before he took his own life.
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Katatjuta #1 by Virginia McGowan
Oil Painting on canvas on board .I painted this [ super magical place] along with several others after I came back from a driving trip to the Centre 7 years ago , I mostly did small watercolour sketches. and a few small;; acrylics on the spot. I did a lot of large one when i came home but they have been stored away until recently. / I was very ill, and also going through a personal trauma [and drama] as well as the loss of my lifestyle and income and could only mange to function for 3 hours a day , so I guess chucking paint around as I call it helped to heal. /
Recent Work
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REAR VIEW by Spiritinme
OBJECTS IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR The skies were pure and the fields were green / And the sun was brighter than it’s ever been / When I grew up with my best friend Kenny / We were close as any brothers than you ever knew It was always summer and the future called / We were ready for adventures and we wanted them all / And there was so much left to dream / And so much time to make it real But I can still recall the sting of all / The tears when he was gone / They said he crashed and burned / I know I’ll never learn / Why any boy should die so young We were racing, we were soldiers of fortune / We got in trouble but we sure got around / There are times I think I see him peeling out of the dark / I think he’s right behind me now and he’s gaining ground But it was long ago and it was far away, / Oh God it seems so very far / And if life is just a highway, / Then the soul is just a car / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are And when the sun descended and the night arose / I heard my father cursing everyone he knows / He was dangerous and drunk and defeated / And corroded by failure and envy and hate There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze / Nowhere to hide and no leaves on the trees / And my father’s eyes were blank / As he hit me again and again and again I know I still believe he’d never let me leave, / I had to run away alone / So many threats and fears, so many wasted years / Before my life became my own And though the nightmares should be over / Some of the terrors are still intact / I’ll hear that ugly coarse and violent voice / And then he grabs me from behind / And then he pulls me back But it was long ago and it was far away, / Oh God it seems so very far / And if life is just a highway, / Then the soul is just a car / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are There was a beauty living on the edge of town / And she always put the top up and the hammer down / And she taught me everything I’ll ever know / About the mystery and the muscle of love The stars would glimmer and the moon would glow / I’m in the back seat with my Julie like a Romeo / And the signs along the highway all said, / Caution! Kids At Play! Those were the rights of spring and we did everything / There was salvation every night / We got our dreams reborn and our upholstery torn / But everything we tried was right She used her body just like a bandage, / She used my body just like a wound / I’ll probably never know where she disappeared / But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now / Just like an angel rising up from a tomb But it was long ago and it was far away, / Oh God it seems so very far / And if life is just a highway, / Then the soul is just a car / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are / And objects in the rear view mirror / May appear closer than they are She used her body just like a bandage, / She used my body just like a wound / I’ll probably never know where she disappeared / But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now TAKING THIS PHOTO MADE ME FEEL THAT AT THAT MOMENT I WAS IN THE PAST PRESENT AND FUTURE. IT WAS VERY SURREAL AND HEALING.
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Keeper of the light 16x20 acrylic on canvas by eoconnor
This is a painting which came out oft hinking about light and darkness,and there she appeared the Keeper of the Light .
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"Memories of Spanish Point" - oil painting by Avril Brand
Oil on canvas 30×40 inches (commissioned) A very special painting for my dear friend, Bridget, remembering a time when she and her dearly departed husband watched the dolphins at Spanish Point. May your memories of that day always be with you, dear Bridget and comfort you when you feel alone.
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The Grandfather 2 by Miles Moody
(Continued from The Grandfather) This is another view of the south face of Grandfather Mountain from Beacon Heights in western NC. His is a long reclining range of rock promontories; center frame is a view of the western most crests. The famous Linn Cove Viaduct is just east of here on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Viewed from the other side, the range is a profile of a grandfather lying face up and searching the sky. I get a sense that at any moment, he’ll sit up, charge is pipe, take a practiced draw beneath a lighted match, and then the story will come. I can almost smell the aroma of pipe smoke wafting about his brow as wisps of clouds. I’ve heard before the story he’s telling now; it’s called ‘The Man Who Planted Trees,’ but he’s telling a version more tailored to Appalachia. It’s got the smell of spruce and hemlock about it and the feel of sugar maples turning red in autumn breeze. His story goes something like this: “My grandfather never had much to say to me; he was as distant as those stone peaks there on the horizon. My father was cast from a similar die; as a kid I spent a lot of effort toward attracting their notice. Sometimes when it came, it left a lasting impression on me even after the color underneath my skin had faded away. But that’s all water under the bridge over Wilson Creek. “There’s just something about the mountains that keeps calling me back,” the grandfather explains. “I found them as a child; it was like my life started over, like in the John Denver song, ‘Rocky Mountain High,’ where he sings, ‘He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year, coming home to a place he’d never been before; he left yesterday behind him; you might say he was born again; you might say he found the key to every door.’ Some’ll tell you that JD was singing about himself and his own rebirth in the Rockies; well, I reckon he’s singing for every mother son of us that’s ever drawn that first breathe o’ mountain air and come to know then and there what it means to really be alive (Continued with The Grandfather 3). / ____ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon F5, f22 @ 1/500, Fuji Velvia 50, Gitzo tripod, Bogen pistol grip head, Tiffen filters: CP, W and Enhancing. /
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Ode to my mum by liesbeth
One of the strongest bonds is the one between a mother and a daughter.. Featured in Sisters in Arms 27-01-2009 28th aniversary of my mum’s leaving this life for another. After looking at Judi Taylors upload in memory of her mum i realised i had a lot of my wonderfull memories of my mother overlayed with deep grief over missing her so badly all these years… now that i have freed my pain and shed the tears that needed to be shed the good memories have room to come back into my life again..and i feel gratefull for that. / Combining a picture of the both of us with wax, is because the wax has been so important for my healing. Lieve Mam, / You gave life love lessons.. / from the deepest part of my soul i thank you for it.. 28 years have gone by / without us being able to touch the other / without being able to see both our smiles / and wiping away the tears that have been shed.. 28 years have gone by / where i needed you so often / as a bride / as a young mother / for the advice only a mum can give.. 28 years i held on to you / not understanding you felt the pain too.. 28 years i needed / to set us both free but also in 28 years / i learned / about love and compassion / about being all one / about spirit never dying / but forever living on. I am so proud to be your daugher and still feel your love every day. Mamma / ‘Loving you is life food for my soul’.. Terri wrote the words exactly as i feel them.. thank you my friend xx “we chose you… and as we did we began the journey to understanding why / you protected us…loved us…and taught us to be who we are.. struggles we now see as teachings / pain feels more of joy / love is deeper by seeing / how we became women who teach others while we learn together ..why. for our mothers, we love you…. / as we watch you fly… ever in the soul thru all of time. for our mothers.”
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"Desolation's Parable" my journey by RL 'Bob' Burdick
I photographed the lighthouse off of Fairport Harbor in the very cold month of February, 2007. I felt alone in alcohol and substance abuse. Lost , desperate, and fighting a losing battle. It’s casualties; my health, many friendships, and it’s greatest loss, severed relationships with my sister, and many of my wife’s family members. Poof! all gone! I have been a serious alcoholic and substance abuser since February 25, 1977. At 3:30 am, I got a phone call, I was to go to Lutheran Hospital to Identify the body of my 3 year old son, Jason. His mom left him alone with a candle burning that fell and caught curtains on fire, she was in Brooklyn Hts jaiI, driving with no licence. and drunk. haven’t stopped
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Enlightenment-the return to yourself by JANET SUMMERS
19.5×25.5 in. watercolor on 100% cotton Arches 300 lb. paper with gold leaf inscription:Enlightenment-the return to yourself Verse:” Enlightenment” Janet Summers enlightenment..light a little light in your soul..enlightenment ..let harmony be your goal. / return to the child inside..let your spirit be your guide. / return to yourself..return to innocence..because the world has stopped making sense..it’s making you so tense!! / Free the child within..and let your life begin again.. / seek out the faeries..they are everywhere.. and don’t forget / the magic word “share”.. because it opens enlightenment ’s door..return to yourself..give ..then.. give more!! / That’s what life is for! / Part of a series about healing and re-birth after a long illness.
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Angel Walk 2 by Miles Moody
“(Continued from Angel Walk) its wooden handle was insubstantial, a crack marred its iron face, but he took the shovel up just the same and began to circle the rock. He felt foolish with each step he took on that stony ground, but his attention remained fixed on that same steady place inside him to which he had just surrendered. ‘Strike there,’ it seemed to say, ‘with all that you’ve got,’ and as iron rang and wood shattered, a large slab fell away from the rock. That space within him was not at all surprised; in fact, it saw only what it had expected to find – the means through which to proceed. “It is true that not only quartz finds its origins in volcanoes, but so also do diamonds, and these were fine large ones now winking back at him in the light of day. Soon the man would discover that he now had the means for realizing his vision a thousand times over, his plan he had underestimated as well he would find. It is a subtle voice, this voice of wisdom found within us all; coming to trust it can make all the difference, indeed.” / __ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-HeartHealing.com I’m still learning from that voice, a voice that I awakened to, within me, at the shout I heard in nature. As I heed its impetus, I learn to trust in the way of its guidance. As I value its promptings, I seem to notice it more. It has always been there speaking, but as life continues its onward march, I seem to be getting better at listening day by day. It has a particular feel coming out of an inner orientation that I consciously choose. I had been feeling for some time to put up a bird feeder outside my kitchen window, but I never seemed to get around to it, until finally I did. I sat watching the birds feed while three young squirrels played in the back yard; I marveled at the joy I was getting out of something so simple and ordinary. A bit of heaviness had lifted from my heart, I realized. It was the pain of regret still lingering from another home place where I’d spent years building a vast garden with many birdfeeders, a place that had once brought me so much pleasure, but at considerable cost in time, effort and money. I sustained an inner wounding when I left there; never quite letting go of the fear that such pleasure was lost to me. I lacked the time and money required to recreate such a place where I now lived. It was in one afternoon for less than fifty dollars that I restored and even surpassed my previous experience. Life is teaching me how to access the wisdom within me to confront the pain of past convictions and overcome its limitation on me so as to allow transcendent experience. I once held a belief that life was mostly a joyless experience, then through great effort I earned the right to have joy; in time I discovered that joy is simply mine to choose. How I got from point A to point C was an inner journey that continues for me. I decided to cut myself some slack; I’m so incredibly grateful that I chose to do so. I reckon that for me, gratitude was the key (Explanation of how to go from point A to point C within is found in my article here ) / ____ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon D90, f14 @ 8 sec, ISO 100, Wimberley Head, Gitzo tripod, Colt Creek cascades, Pearson Falls area near Saluda NC.
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Angel Walk by Miles Moody
(Continued from Coyote Howl) I shared all this one day with someone, asking her what she thought was going on. Her answer was simply just another question: “If you were to suppose that these experiences are coming from a place of unlimited wisdom, then what wisdom is being communicated to you through them?” That was it exactly, I recall telling her, and then I waited for her to give me the answer to her question, which was nothing more than a rewording of what I had asked her to begin with. She just smiled and told me a little story that went something like this: A Shovel and a Rock / By Miles A Moody “There was a fellow dying of a serious illness; in fact, if it were not for the intervention of a mysterious healer, he would have surely died. The doctors had given the man up for dead and the priests had administered last rites, when the healer appeared and asked the young man why he wished to live. ‘I feel that I was meant to change the world for the better,’ answered the young man, ‘but now I shall die with my destiny unfulfilled and this is the saddest thing of all.’ The healer replied that surely there was someone who might continue the work begun by the young man; to this the man confessed, ‘I have wasted my life in things that no longer matter to me; it is here on my death bed that I have realized my true reason for being here on this earth.’ “The healer produced a flask of the foulest water drawn from the sewers of that hospital and poured forth a hearty portion. Pestilence swam in its fetid waters as the healer presented it to the sick man. “This is your illness. To the degree to which you trust in the truth in that which you have just testified to me, to that same degree shall this serve to heal you. Now drink up, if you dare.” “It was contrary to the best advice of the doctors and priests that the dying man hoisted that rank beverage to his lips, and with the last of his strength he drank it down. It was to their utter amazement that the man walked away from his death bed that very day. He set to work immediately drawing up plans for a great center of healing, spending the last of his savings to purchase a property. Every day he rushed about in pursuit of the funds for constructing the center and each night he returned to his property to sit upon a large rock there at its center and cry out to the heavens in frustration. His presentations were flawless, and many of the rich and famous where in his audiences, but no one would listen to him and donate money. A small contribution he finally managed to receive was spent on a site preparation study; to his dismay, the man learned that the entire property was situated upon an extinct volcano lying just inches beneath the surface. His ‘rock of lamentation’ was but a tiny tip of that subterranean behemoth. The expense for foundation preparation alone would be astronomical, he was told. ‘Why did I feel to purchase this property,’ he howled from his rock. ‘Why did I think I knew how to make a difference in this world?’ “And so it was that the man sat upon his rock day and night beseeching the heavens, ‘I am a fool,’ he wailed, time and again. ‘Tell me what to do,’ and there was only that same shovel at his feet; it was all that remained of the site evaluation crew. ‘I am a bigger fool than I thought, because I feel to take that shovel there and strike this rock to prepare the way for my destiny.’ His tears gave way to anger and he pounded his fists bloody on the rock, until finally after many such days, he relented. ‘Okay, if you want me to clear away a volcano with only this pitiful shovel, then so be it. No matter how long it takes me, I will not lose faith again. I don’t understand how or why this will make any difference, but I will trust in the guidance that has brought me this far (continued with Angel Walk 2 ).’” / ____ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon F4s, f22 @1/30, Fuji Reala 100, Gitzo tripod, Great Smoky Mountain National Park
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Coyote Howl by Miles Moody
I never cease to be amazed and mystified when nature allows me to come in close. It happens a lot for me in the national parks, and for this reason, I will forever love the treasure that is our parks. I am so grateful for the struggle and sacrifice made by the far sighted ones before me that rendered our national parks into a reality. It gets obvious that something ‘different and special’ has just happened when a seemingly wild animal in a particularly remote place lets me come near. It’s tempting to blow it off and say, “Nothing unusual here; these are just park animals; they haven’t been hunted in decades and they’ve lost their fear of humanity.” I did this for awhile, to relieve myself of the subtle intensity that gradually seeped into my awareness each time this occurred. I didn’t want to handle how it challenged my pre-conceptions, particularly the ones I secreted against myself; the ones I would not admit even to myself. Then it started happening anywhere, not just in the parks, and just frequently enough that I never quite got ‘over it.’ It came at me from out of nature, but I won’t assume that it is limited to that. It works through whatever we can be passionate for, I suspect; wherever and whenever we open our hearts into a ‘higher’ passion. It began with my hobbies – such a seemingly unimportant word is this, but it was through the doorway of my ‘hobbies’ that an enormity of significance unfolded (continued with Angel Walk). / __ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon F5, f2.8 @1/500, Fuji Velvia 50,. Wemberly Head, Gitzo tripod, Great Smoky Mountain National Park
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King of Winter by Miles Moody
Featured in the Inspired Art group Nov 2009. The first time I met this guy he was all bluster and bristling fur and bent on battle with a big interloper into his territory. I had recently read a story about a boy and his best friend, a dog, who happened to be his father’s champion pit fighter. I lent the dog’s name to this big feisty buck, not realizing that I’d come to know him and love him as a best friend, and I’d never again see his aggressive side. I knew his territory; I’d go into the forest to find him, just wandering in the direction of that subtle tug, and more often that not he’d be there in the place that my heart guided me to. Sometimes he was ‘on patrol,’ visiting the scrapes and rubs he maintained to let the others know his boundaries. Other times he’d be resting after a long night of entertaining the ladies. It was business as usual; my presence had no effect on his activities; he wasn’t like a puppy craving my attention nor did he demonstrate affection like a housecat nuzzling against my neck. He behaved for the most part as if I wasn’t there. Something almost imperceptible changed in me during the span of time I knew him. It was like I learned how to reach out thru him and into something unfathomable. Here I am trying to write about it now, and I just don’t have the words. As I look into this picture now, I see one side of the image in darkness and the other is bright white light. He intersects the polarity as if to represent the transition between. I called him ‘Wardog’ when first we met, and the name stuck, though it no longer seemed to fit him. Over time, I’d realize that he represented a different sort of warrior to me now. It was in his presence; rather I suspect that it was in the presence of what I found when with him, such that I began to learn how to heal the quiet wounding of my heart (continued with King of Winter 2). / ___ / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon F5, f2.8 @1/45, 200 mm, Fuji Velvia 50, Wimberley Head, Gitzo tripod, Great Smoky Mountain National Park
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King of Winter 2 by Miles Moody
(Continued from King of Winter) My heart was like a tortoise withdrawn into its shell; the physical hurt long ago resolved, but the brunt of derived meaning lingering still. As we sat together, I wondered, why is it that the same tragedy can inflict itself on two very similar individuals, while one is forever crushed, the other chooses to rise above the experience to never repeat it again. I seemed to encounter a plethora of voices out there in this world more than willing to invalidate, humiliate, and crush my enthusiasm for living. I had made a lifelong practice of internalizing the message of those voices, making its meaning my own. But as I sat those many times with Wardog, I began to listen to a different voice; a whispered voice heard in my feelings; I learned to pay attention to that and to ignore the condemnation around me while confronting that same attitude within me. I made a new choice in each moment that I faced this, and gradually I let go of the reasons that had made a judgmental attitude important to me. I experienced the feeling of acceptance flowing out of the life in nature surrounding me, through the avenue of this deer and into me. The tortoise in me had cracked his shell just wide enough to let the light in, challenging me to examine my foregone conclusions to discover (God forbid!) that I might be wrong about others as well as myself! Looking back I realize that I just got weary of judging myself and blaming others and then trying to cope by denying how I really felt. I turned my ear to the voice of love and sure, it meant that I found out that I was mistaken in so many ways, and for a brief moment each time, I’d feel exposed and vulnerable, and then I’d just let go of the need to deny it, and a bit of the truth would seep in and surprise me by making me stronger for having been willing to go through it. Well, that’s how it happened best as I can put it in words. As the saying goes, “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it :-)” / ©Miles A Moody LivingEarth-Hearthealing.com. Written and photographic works are the sole property of copyright holder; reproduction in part or in full only with expressed permission or purchase. Nikon F5, f2.8 @1/30, 200 mm, Fuji Velvia 50, SB-25 Gitzo tripod, Wimberley head, Great Smoky Mountain National Park / /
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In your description include a statement or paragraph about how creating this piece was helpful to you and/or the work’s impact on your life. Please not only a poem or a song. I know as artists there are times we want the art/poetry to speak for itself and that is great. If that is important to you, then we ask that you not submit that particular piece and we would love for you to submit a different one!
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