I had a vision in my meditation last night that our souls are all creators, artists actually. This is the kind of thing that happens to me when I spend a day at a good art museum, in very good company. I had a whimsical experience of imagining my own soul as a painter, painting portraits of my soul’s journey through the ages.
Each one was a masterpiece in its own right; unique and amazing- although some more successful and well loved than others.
There was a cave painting of a figure that held energy and vigor but was still slightly unformed- the spear held with power, the body vibrating.
There was a Renaissance masterpiece, a powerful and gentlemanly merchant, broad across the waistcoat, luminous and glowing with life, his worldly goods displayed around him.
Then a family portrait in the Flemish style, with a cluster of children arrayed around the voluminous gowns of my skirts, the folds of white lace collar almost translucent.
And that one embarrassing but exuberant cubist experiment, hidden in a corner somewhere.
Each one, an expression of me, a representation of a lifetime that I have lived. How different they all were! And yet the core essence of me-ness observable in each one.
And the artist, my own soul, the Grand Creator of these expressions, humming away happily in her/his study, in love with the process of creation itself. Mine has a studio in Provence where the light is made by God herself for painters, and was drinking Pastis, and swearing mildly but happily in French.
