Its not that I lack passion. The fire in my stomach keeps me up at night. I wake with visions of other worlds. I want to bring these home. Home to earth, to our senses. I want to feel them, their volume, existing in space, organized by gravity, by the tide.
The block that stumbles my unchecked, voracious action is the pause that comes from seeing this world askew; system out of balance, unclear aim, purpose of society, culture. What is the world that this action creates? I may have my desires. I do. But they must pass a rubric of the seven generations, of the life of the child. What does this creation, this act, this making, how does it inform the spiritminds of the children?
I am not alone. I am not one man. I exist within a lineage. I am a part of a whole, and this whole is the life of the forms of the earth, of manifest awareness, that is, the awareness of the manifest of the multiple manifest, and of its own manifest, the awareness that awareness has of the experience of being aware.
When I have the sight of a form that, though not pure, serves this whole, I feeel the unstoppable force of hands in clay forming the beautiful world from within itself, Bringing these internal forms out, out to be irradiated by the vibrations of the sun.