Spiritual journey through art, by Mathilda Garrido Lucay
IN THE BEGINNING
GEOFFREY GASKILL
In the Beginning …
… the world is dark and without sound. These are the days before butterflies.
The butterfly woman’s mother is the sky, her father the land and when they make love their child brings light to cover the land when she rises from the waters.
She sees all.
Rocks and river are cold and lonely. So, she opens her arms, gathers them to her bosom. Lotuses fall from her embrace into the water, their red trumpet heads pop and bob above the surface before rushing downstream.
She reaches out, her fingers caressing the surface of the stream, the sound of strings thrumming in the pristine air.
Around her head, in the scent of her breath the air pulsates beauty into living form.
Butterflies rise in clouds around her, and above rocks and stream falling like snowflakes around her.
The butterfly child metamorphoses into the butterfly woman.
She reaches out her hand. The water ruffles under her fingertips, around lotus heads. She plucks a bloom before pushing it behind an ear and weaves another in her hair.
Their fragrance scents the air.
In her palm, butterfly babies pulsate beating their drying wings like musical notes before taking to the air.
The woman watches. Her offspring flutter around her face to sing their last farewell before taking flight. In a voice of silken suspiration, she breathes them life and liberty, lifting her hands to the sky and scattering them to the breezes.
Like painted lanterns they rise into the unknown, each of their wing beating their song of farewell.
With her every breath, each note of her musical laughter a rainbow arches across the sky, across land and water, stream and rocks …
*
It is the way of the world to grow old. To look but not see. To listen but not hear.
Only children have that talent.
It is they who hear the strumming of waters. Only they see true colour. Only they can hear the beating of the heart.
To the old ones, the song of the butterfly woman is no more than babel, the sound of traffic or noise of water over stone. They tell their children, ‘ The world was beautiful once. But not now.’
But the little ones know better.
When the woman returns, sea and land will make love again, red lotus will perfume the air and song and music and laughter will soar into the sky. Like butterflies.
CHANGES
JULIE RYSDALE
FLOW
EMMA YOUNG
When all became too much Maggie would escape to her safe place, the solitary place where she truly belonged. Where she could breathe, where she could be herself, where she could daydream and be anything and anyone she wanted to be. Maggie gently laid down on the riverbed, far enough away from the running stream so as not to be swept away, but close enough to hear the reassuring trickle of water teaching her to be like the water and flow. Breathe in one, two, three, four and five. Hold. Breathe out one, two, three, four, five. Meditation had always been a safe house to Maggie.
With every breath sequence the calming sensation infiltrated her body – the drum beat thud of her heart calmed to a gentle reassuring beat, her blood felt warm again and not the fearful chill it had been, the deafening noise in her ears had stilled and now she could hear the birds in the distance and the gentle flow of the river, the acidic burning of her throat warning of nausea settled. Yes this was working, she was becoming whole again.
As she envisaged stunning crimson red butterfly wings embracing her, the vibrant red conveying safety and strength, she felt safe. She became one with the water stream, she felt the crisp cool water against her skin, she felt the motion of the water pulling her forward, she floated amongst water lilies, elodea and crocus plants, and absorbed all the varying energies of life force from the water, plants, fish, the healing sunshine and the solid ground beneath her. The one constant in life was the stability mother earth provided.
She heard and understood the message from the river to not ‘move on’ as such but to ‘flow on’ from the past. The healing was in focusing on the future whilst trusting she would get to her destination emotionally, physically and spiritually, when the time was right just as the water trusted it would get to its destination.
When she felt ready Maggie gently fluttered her eyelids open, she felt the fresh growth of mother earth at her fingertips, she wiggled her toes and was brought back from her meditative state to the present. Just as water doesn’t flow backwards Maggie made a conscious pact to herself that it was time to flow forward.
CARBON ZERO
JOHN HERITAGE
ENLIGHTENMENT
DAVID BRIDGE
‘Welcome to Antiques Roadshow, which this week comes to you from…’ Michael’s eyelids drooped, but the introduction continued with scarcely a tremor… ‘the gaming room of the ‘Barking Dog’ in West Geelong.’
Michael registered a montage of shots of pub regulars clutching an assortment of vintage items queuing around plastic tables, hosting a variety of experts in bright blazers with AR monograms. And there he was in tight focus, listening to one such, clutching the brightly coloured planter he had rescued from the local op shop only days earlier.
‘An interesting item this one, we don’t see too many of them. Tell me, how did you come to be its owner?’
Michael heard himself embark on the visit to Vinnies, prompted by his wife’s stocktake and blitz of unloved and unused possessions. Somehow, his explanation seemed to resolve to a few key points, quite unlike his normal self.
‘And so Michael, you have no idea of the history of this piece and its story?’
‘Well no, I just liked the colourful picture – the fish, the bird and the girl.’
‘Except the bird isn’t a bird.’
The relevant part of the image filled the screen and Michael realised his mistake. ‘Yes, more like a moth or butterfly.’
‘Quite so. And that’s important to the artist’s intention to tell a story of transition and transformation. The butterfly, for I think the sunlight says that it is so, is ascending after the metamorphosis from caterpillar to pupa and then to a more marvellous creature capable of flight. You can see the fish leaping from the water, making a last attempt to catch it then falling back to play its part in nurturing the Lotus flower blossoming below. The Lotus, of course, has long had spiritual associations, rising up as it does from the slimy underwater floor to surface, each dawn newly displaying it’s blossom of shining, symmetrically arranged petals. No wonder it symbolises rebirth for so many.’
‘But who is the girl?’ Michael heard himself ask. ‘I know her, I’m sure.’
‘That’s a good question, Michael. Goddesses of a number of religions have long associations with the Lotus. And here the young woman seems positioned amongst the warmth and light of the heavens, which not only draw up the sacred flower, but encourage the butterfly to emerge and reproduce. So it seems to me that she represents the fulfilment of dreams and destiny.’
‘She reminds me of my daughter, Sarah.’
‘Possibly what drew you to the planter, Michael? Anyway, I’m sure you’d be interested in its value…’
Michael was, but his concentration was broken by his wife’s voice. ‘Wake up, Michael. I’d like to get more of Sarah’s stuff moved from the shop before the lease runs out. Why did you buy one of her planters? You could have had any of them for free.’
‘I didn’t realise they were Sarah’s. Anyway, I think they have a good story to tell and we should hold on to them. I’m sure things will change for the better.’
GOSSAMER WINGS
CLAUDIA COLLINS
I hear distant crying – seagulls?
I am tired, so tired – my head is throbbing – my eyes are shut tight against the bright, shining light – the light beckons – I am a moth – I float upward on gossamer wings …
***
I am staying by the seaside with my great-uncle and aunt, recuperating after a long illness. Breakfast is consumed in silence. After the empty plates are cleared, Uncle retires to his study, Aunt to her parlour, and I, to the garden with my companion, Jane Eyre. From where I sit I cannot see the beach, but I know it is there. I am restless. The seagulls call to me. I desert Jane and exit through the rusty side gate into the lane used only by the night-soil men, and me.
I spot the river through a grove of ti-tree twisted by age, like Uncle and Aunt. It is very difficult to walk along the shore in my high-heeled boots so I sit on the sand to remove them, my stockings too, and I wander to the water’s edge. I raise my skirt and petticoat and the wavelets lap around my ankles. Slender, pretty ankles—What a pity it is that a woman’s ankles must remain hidden from the world!
Each day I walk further as I grow stronger. Today my destination is the bluff, where the river meets the sea. I find a track and climb upward. I hear the ocean waves crash and thunder. Atop the cliff, a strong gust of wind sweeps my hat from my head and tugs my hair loose from its restraining pins. Below me is a sheltered cove with an exquisite turquoise rockpool and white sands—pristine, untouched.
Perspiration trickles down between my breasts as I slip and slither down the cliff-side path. I cross the sand and pick my way across sharp rocks to the edge of the pool. I gaze down at the shells scattered beneath the clear water. Dare I? I cannot resist. I look around. There is nobody here to see. I remove my garments one by one.
The water, deeper than I expect, closes over me. My feet hit the bottom and I propel myself upwards. Arms flailing as my head breaks the surface, I gasp with shock at the cold. I manage to heave myself out onto an overhanging rock on the left side of the pool. I gather my clothing and make my way toward the shelter of the bluff. Hidden from the possibility of prying eyes by a cluster of boulders, I lie down on the sand and spread my limbs outward like a starfish. Soon the sun’s heat fills every crevice and, feeling delightfully wicked, I touch those places only I have ever touched …
***
I hear distant crying – seagulls?
I am tired, so tired – my head is throbbing – my eyes are shut tight against the bright, shining light – the light beckons – I am a moth – I float upward on gossamer wings …
WE’LL MEET AGAIN
GAIL GRIFFIN
Some people will never understand
how much we loved our dog
but that’s okay.
They don’t have to
because we knew she knew…
We remember when your time had come to leave us all behind
Your final days were lazy days. Full of rest and sunshine.
Those last two nights we nestled you between us on our bed.
Your shallow breathing gave away all faith in your revival.
Full of trust, intelligence,
Your eyes betrayed your pain.
We cuddled you and scratched your neck,
Wrapped in loving arms.
We said goodbye and wished you well,
To send you on your way.
Final kisses. Soothing pats.
You whispered your last breath.
We’ve cried, we’ve hugged, we’ve laughed, reminisced,
Withdrawn from everyone.
We’re grieving for you darling Abi,
The gap you’ve left? Immeasurable.
Such loyalty. Devotion. Love.
Our hearts bereft. We’re numb.
Forever grateful we’ll all be, for everything you’ve done,
To make our lives so colourful, enjoyable and fun.
We’re confident you’re healed by now,
Healthy. Full of zip.
Playing round The Rainbow Bridge,
Waiting for us to come.
A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY
SANDRA MASON
As I closed my eyes I felt my feet lift from the ground and I felt the air below me. All of a sudden the feeling of weightlessness was exhilarating as I felt a sense of freedom and took off. Like a flower petal floating in the air I was being swept up by the wind high into the sky, feeling the sunshine cover my face with soft warm kisses. With the wind rushing through hair I slowly came to a stop and just floated softly, admiring the world below me. Beautiful large butterflies covered in an array of spectacular colours lazily fluttered by me, doing a loop around my head as they went.
Then it was time to descend and down I flew whoosh, beaming and smiling with pure joy as I flew like a superwoman towards the ocean. With a sharp splash I pierced the water and sunk into it feeling it wrap itself around me, and floated into the depths marvelling at the underwater world around me. As the light rays danced in streaks through the blue, it highlighted vivid reds and oranges of the jagged coral growing in reefs below me. Schools of fish swam by, sometimes coming at me then parting in the middle and they filed past me in perfect soundless formations then come back together like a single being moving off into the distance.
I longed to stay here and be absorbed by this wonderous world around me but I knew time was short. As a large green turtle swam by I grabbed on to both sides of it’s shell and hung on as it pulled me closer and closer to the water’s edge, until I could eventually stand and walk out of the water, up along the sandy beach, while listening to the waves crashing behind me.
As I walked further into the dunes the native grasses gave way to beds of wild flowers, clusters growing in all shapes, grouped together in stunning blues, pinks, yellows and white, all swaying in the breeze and weaving in and around each other to create a patchwork of colours, with soft delicate scents filling my nostrils with delight.
Once again I closed my eyes and quietly smiled to myself thinking of the amazing adventure I have just been on, and this time when I opened my eyes I was back in the gallery, standing in front of a painting with people buzzing all around me, not even noticing me and they wandered by observing and discussing the art works all around. As I glanced at the painting in front of me once more, I quietly thanked it for taking me on a journey like no other, and letting my soul take flight and be free for just a short moment in time.
WHISPERS OF HOPE: THE DELICATE RESILIENCE OF PINK FLOWERS
CAROL HULLIN
Inspired by the painting’s ethereal beauty, Matilde’s imagination ignited, and she embarked on a literary journey, intent on translating the canvas’s visual poetry into written words. With each stroke of her pen, she sought to capture the essence of the pink flowers, infusing her prose with their delicate resilience and unwavering grace.
Through Matilde’s vivid prose, the pink flowers came to life. Their delicate blooms unfolded like whispers of hope in a chaotic world, while their vibrant hues danced upon the page, radiating a strength that defied their fragile appearance.
As Matilde wrote, the flowers transformed into symbols of resilience, persevering through the harshest circumstances to bask in the warmth of sunlight. They became metaphors for human spirituality , inspiring readers with their ability to bloom and thrive despite adversity.
Her words painted a picture of a thriving garden, where the pink flowers swayed gently, their fragrance mingling with the soft breeze. In a world of turbulence, they became beacons of serenity, offering solace and reminding all of the enduring beauty that exists even in the darkest of times.
Matilde’s prose celebrated the power of the pink flowers to evoke hope and wonder. She skillfully captured the fleeting nature of their existence, emphasizing the importance of cherishing each precious moment. Her words resonated deeply, stirring within readers a longing to appreciate the small joys that give life true meaning.
As Matilde concluded her literary journey, a profound sense of fulfillment washed over her. Through her writing, she had breathed life into the pink flowers, immortalizing their essence on the page. In this artistic fusion of art, literature, and the human spirit, she had forged a connection that transcended the limitations of the canvas.
Matilde’s words invited readers into a world where imagination flourished and possibilities knew no bounds. Her literary masterpiece echoed with the delicate resilience and unwavering grace of the pink flowers, offering solace, inspiration, and a renewed sense of wonder.
As readers turned the final page, their hearts overflowed with a profound appreciation for the beauty Matilde’s artful prose had revealed. In her words, they found solace, inspiration, and a poignant reminder of the enduring beauty that resides within us all: will and spirit.
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