I Went For A Funeral, I Went There To Paint
Published on August 31, 2015
I went to Sedona to lay things to rest.
To pay respect to the dreams I was letting go of.
To mourn the death of an identity, a way of thinking, and a heaviness I’ve been carrying around for so long that it finally became good company.
I went to Sedona for shiva among the old oak trees, ancient red rocks, and the shamelessly wild creek.
I went to Sedona for a funeral, I went there to paint.
I wasn’t interested in capturing what was in front of me or to listen as my muse gave orders.
I just wanted a place to say good bye. A way to process through my feelings honestly — a ritual that means something, at least to me.
And it always comes down to this, doesn’t it?
A stripping, a pulling, a tearing away.
With each brush stroke I poured my surrender, my trust, and my faith.
The charcoal commanded my courage. The earth which I sat upon opened like a star being born under a new moon.
And I’m not trying to be poetic or twist the experience into a metaphor. I honestly went there for a funeral (of course, of course).
But I left feeling empty and most of all grateful.
I went to Sedona to lay things to rest.
To pay respect to the dreams I’ve finally released and to bless the space that has taken their place.
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