Blessed is Brighid, Mother of the Forge and Well. May Her Flame continue to burn . . . and so it is lit.
She whispers to me of Organic Art, letting what happens, happen. Accepting that wild growing vision. And trusting the art. That last one is a bear. We humans like to control things. Planting tomatoes in the desert, breaking the spirit of mustangs or herding cats ~ these are challenges we delight in because, if we can enjoy a tomato sandwich while ponyed up to manage a docile gathering of felines then we've managed some level of success under our supervision. Sort of like playing God. And while I've a good idea I'm doing the Work of This God Hirself, I rarely trust the process.
So, Brighid says, Let it unfold. Let it Become. You simply have no control over this.
And, well, She's right. I'm getting the idea that anything I create isn't really mine. It belongs to the Creatrix. I am only an instrument of that creation. That pretty much humbles me in my boots. Imperfections are perfect, mistakes are meant to manifest.
|Coming along on the easel . . .|
|a sweet spot for today . . .|
|the computer rotated it, but another spot that drew my eye . . .|
|and this journal spread which has been a challenge, but I've been told to let it be.|