I love to paint

This article is also a partial answer to Wendy Zammit’s question: What do you do while waiting?

Creation and healing are said to be expressions of love. That’s not hard to imagine. Anything positive probably could be said to be an expression of love.

Love is like our basic ice cream. And then we add flavors like chocolate, coffee, licorice, bubble gum…. Please stop me.

They’re all varieties of love. And so with the divine qualities.

I can’t speak for healing. But in my new creative outlet – painting anything that lends itself to a makeover, usually castaway bottles – the thing I’m noticing is how loving I feel when I’m slapping on a fresh coat of paint.

It’s all about flow and color and brightness. In terms of flow, whenever I flow, I find that what flows up from me is love. When I flow, I love. The two seem to go together.

Copper gold seems to be my favorite color. Original gold I don’t find as attractive. Transparent cobalt blue glass – my second favorite. I sleep with blue Xmas tree lights all around my bedroom. (I’m one of Michael’s blue legions and travel on the blue ray.)

I lie in bed looking at all the different colors of the bottles I’ve done and I nearly bliss out from the colors. Lavender, gold, magenta, ruby red, sea green …. I think I’m having pre-birth memories.

I became aware of how fitting it was that I should take up painting as my hobby. My father wouldn’t let me near his tools and on one occasion yelled at me when I was coming down the stairs to see him (aged 4 perhaps).

Consequently, I never became a handyman. And I really haven’t had an outlet since then for my creative energy.

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Strangely, this is an altogether different experience than raising love from my heart and sending it, say, to a woman companion.

The latter has its rise and fall, stops and go’s. But this arising of love while painting simply goes on and on. It flows. It actually sets me up in the mornings for writing and just keeps going as long as I keep flowing.

When I’m painting, the love spreads with the paint brush, which is why I especially love large objects. It gives me the experience that so burned itself into my memory as a child, of finger-painting at kindergarten.

Painting, now, allows that sweep of the paintbrush to somehow reawaken in me long-hidden memories of that happier time.

I know from “System Restore” (1) that one can hook up to a previous memory and create a great deal of relief by letting go of all negative memories in this area between that memory and now. Start again. Factory reset. A fresh start, etc.

And so I do see myself stitching up the wound that happened then and becoming again that happy child at age 4 or 5, whatever it was, two years or so away from having Dad yelled at me a second time, this time up close, shattering my personality. (2)

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Even that gets included in the stitched wound. All of it gets included because I’m ready to let go of it now. I want the absense of evil intention (3) and the love that goes along with it. (4)

And so I – who am the only one who can heal this wound, just as you are, yours – do stitch up the wound, in my imagination (since all this is imagined anyways).

I feel as satisfied by imagining myself stitching it up as by a doctor doing so. I enfold within it all the hurt and pain and sorrow of those years for healing by my spiritual white cells. I consign it to the Mother’s Will and let the matter go.

Whether it lasts forever or for an hour, at this moment, I feel the full satisfaction of having healed this part of my past.

That is not to say that mentors like Michael, Werner Erhard, John Enright, Sri Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi and company have not guided me; they have.

But in the end, this horse, led to water, has to drink it. The same with all horses. No sense standing at the trough, life’s water cooler, chatting.

Well, for however long it lasts, I feel buoyed up, restored, whole.

What can I paint?