38x58 oil paint on wood panel
I’d always thought I was listening
But, did I hear?
As the weather of the to-be-heard came in
To my own weather of noise within
How could the two not mix?
And create something altered
from the thing that was first to be heard.
It was my duty, then
If I was going to actually listen
To know my own noise, first.
To hear all of the of it’s trees, clouds, rains, thunders,
rivers, streams, and crackling forest floors
And care for their noise while teaching them silence
So that I could know
When I was hearing something other
That I could welcome it into the bowl of my listening
With a place to unfold
A life all it’s own.
This is an art of time.
This is an art of space.
This is an art of discernment.
Listening is nature
To other nature
Without overtaking it