A Dream Is A Mirror, Awakening The Dreamer And The Dreamed At The Same Time.

In the bush I am not alone. I am seen and touched. The rain, the wind on my face – we remember each other. I am seen here. I am related to those trees over there. I am seen from here and here and here. Those mountains there, include me in their song.

I hunt the meaning behind things, in the stone, in the earth and encrustations. In the voice of the river and the light coming from the millions of stars. There are infinite varieties of experience and many ways to tell a life, and many world views. I came here. I took my view of things. I laid it gently down.

The Photo

This is not a photograph of ruin. The splendour lies on the inside. What am I doing here? I am gathering myself from every corner of this place, and every season. There is power in photos, to summon up a moment in time, a day, a month, years. To summon back a world.

The cabin hovers on the edge of the woods that overlooks the lake. You can’t see it in the photograph but the windows barely close. The tin roof crackles and snaps in the heat and the cold. The weathered plywood exterior had once been covered in maroon paint. You can see it still, in places. And the vines crawl over it. Not in the photo, it was taken in November. That year everything was already winter killed. From here I go about my work, taking care of things. To outsiders it looks all rough and crude. No one ever comes here.

But I view it from the inside out. The forest and the fields that surround it. The lake, and behind that, the mountain that rises like a giant, harbouring the secrets of life, dreaming the things around it. The comings and goings of the sun and the moon, the rain and the wind. The seen and the unseen. Giving a face to everything, writing my name. And I, here, forming a life of sorts, and a home. At first sight, you would think there is nothing new, nothing bold. But love reaches here.