I Went For A Funeral, I Went There To Paint

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.