Image courtesy of Galerie Juliette Jongma, Amsterdam
I am personally surprised to have the opportunity to observe Falaise VII of Misha de Ridder. Looking at the photograph, I wonder how much more sensitive each moment could be. How fragile the life of breathing is. The moment I realize that life is a gift is when I understand the gracefulness of exchange between nature and me. Back and forth. The sound of my breath pushes me beyond realm of moments. Only me and my reflection. The light of belief brings me to contact with my feeling. I am the only person who knows how it feels inside.
When I feel the change of season, I feel the delicacy of time passing by. A new season softly redresses landscapes. The spirit of melancholic air veils the sky; light becomes more opaque. Things turn to uncertainty of a new being that happens to grow into shape. Thoughts remain weak; consciousness gets lazy. The bearing of life, untouched, unseen is moving through by each minute of the hour.
In an extreme version of mesmerizing stillness lies a search for the light. In being minimized rests a miracle within. I am willing to live it up. To take it all in.
I may not know what lies ahead. I may not know what I will be doing next. I may not know what I am trying to convey. Conscious beliefs and traditional habits continue to be implanted as I grow. Newspapers, Internet, televisions, the blockbuster movie shows. Overwhelmed. I wish not to receive secondary information. No more rumors. No more teaching passing down on me. In the end, nature is straightforward: the light speaks for itself.
I want to grow backwards to the child state. To feel the world and nature. To see through everything in its simplest form. I want to connect to the light of belief in the way that it has always been. Observation and analysis help me return to the basic connection with substance. The light inspires me for personal change.
Is there still light in lovers’ eyes?
I dare not break the silence.
The white is upon us. Something is falling. Something is dropping. The absolute is cutting. My dear, it is cold outside.
I am a fool, am I not? I must have said something wrong or I must have done something right. In black we are hidden. In white we are absent. No words left but silence. Now we both have nowhere to stand but in the white. In nothing, everything is brightly clear. In the white, things have turned the back on us. We are now refugees without words.
The innocence of angels comes down for a visit.
Where are you?
All I know is I need to stay here, observing the light. I just listen to what nature has spoken up. I see myself in grass, trees, flowers, and in the air flowing through. I say: "This is it!"