Hearing the sea can happen at any moment. It is always crashing onto the beach of life, onto those tidal places where the edge-dwellers and turtles comb the shore. If you listen to your own breath, and the name it speaks, you will hear it, rising and falling, the waves passing in and then out, the ebb and flow of holy water.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018 Artwork inspired by a reference photo by Linda Bolser Gilmore with kind permission.
How deep the breath that makes this silence roar, and how soft the stillness that sits patiently for moments and aeons, emanating love to us in such small hope of any return.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
At last I find some calm. A strange peace moves between the trees, like the rustling of being which does not need to announce itself. An undercurrent of claiming rises beside the prostrate trunk. This place, it says, is mine, has always been mine, will always be mine. And the running roots of it take hold of my feet, gently, with blessing, so that I am connected, stilled, known. The acorns patter down from above and the blackberries swell in their ripeness. Here I may breathe.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015