Ode to Indigo
The city is alive with purple. Carpets of pulsating petals lie at the sides of almost every road, while the massive blooming crowns of the jacaranda turn a monochrome skyline into a poem. Each small breeze showers micro rains of violet drops. Creamy white butterflies whirl by, gusted in happy clusters. Spring in Africa is brief yet joyful, a short pocket of mildness and fragrant growth before the heat flattens and slows the beat of life.
I’m painting, thanks to spring. When the jasmine sent its luscious scent my way, I felt a shift in my long struggle with doubt and fear. A tireless, and sometimes merciless, watching preceded this shift. Watching myself from every angle, watching for the truth and the lies, and with the seeing had to eventually come insight. Followed by compassion and eventually action, though it felt at times as though I was stuck on some hellish repeat button, dooming myself to a socially accepted brand of insanity.
How many of us are living lives of quiet desperation. The ones whose desperation starts to make a noise we send away and/or medicate into submission.
What is the sound of sanity?
I wrote the following piece before I knew about Indigo Spider’s blog, but after reading some of her posts it feels like a fitting dedication:
this is for a voice in the wilderness, a smile among vacant faces.
colour of deep longing
of secret dreams woven in the dark
inked sister to the sky,
lift my burden
high up where air becomes space
and nothing weighs much any more
sounds turn to silence
float on a shimmering breath
here we expand infinitely
along a silver stranded spectrum