Tag Archives: Creation

Creating Encounter in Colour: Ocean

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Just as the ocean cries out in glorious Technicolour that she is not only blue, not only green, so I shout out to the world that cannot see who I am.  All of us are so much more! Can you not see the myriad of hues that curl under each rolling tide, that sing through the cells of one leaf, that rustle and hum in every emotion passing across my face?

Light and shadow wash over all things, creating tints with no name, and driving the machinations of artists’ colourmen, sweating over the alchemy that will never, no matter how hard they work, obtain true dawn-beach-gold. For who can mix a palette for every green in nature, or even on one tree? And who can capture the nuances of light and dark playing joyfully, dancing as dolphins, on the crest of one wave?

Holding the briefest of moments in our consciousness, were we to live forever, we would never exhaust the meditations dancing in the light.

Text and artwork © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

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Lent 8

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Can you imagine how deeply he is feared and loved? How galaxies float upon the surface of his eye, and how every created thing but us, rushes to serve him?

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 7

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This is not some witless nothing, weak and insipid, a god with rheumy eyes and brittle bones. This is a power, raw and mighty, a majesty undreamt of and a fist, if it chooses to curl, that could shatter the earth with one blow. Do not mistake slowness for indecision, it is gravitas. Do not imagine frailty, there is a core of fibrous strength that reaches across nebulae without blinking. This is not a feeble God, who holds together all that is.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

152: Carousel

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Unstoppably spinning till the seats are empty, the whirlwind of our minds merry-go-rounds and swirls, like giant teacups at the fair, clutching at the sides in case the hot drink goes splashing over the edges. Half the time we are screaming in fun, and the rest, desperate to disembark, like sailors with no faith in the prophesied arrival of sealegs.

And suppose we got our wish, and the machinery ground to a stuttering halt, cogs clanking to a surprised standstill? Would we sit, contentedly, waiting for the inevitability of rust, or would we find ourselves restless and stretching, out of sorts with the motionless existence, like a moonless tide? And if the planet followed suit and was released from its perpetual movement, the godchild we imagine in our smallness bored of its toy and forgetful in spinning of our celestial axis, wouldn’t we then find ourselves flung into space, back seat drivers without the seatbelt of gravity or faith, realising for all our grumbling and protesting that we were created to go around and around and around again?

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015