We all are filaments — conscious threads of photosynthetically dependent star dust moving intwined along the arrow of Time towards the Great Unfolding a trillion, trillion, trillion years henceforth.
We all partake in the weaving of this great Tapestry.
Let us begin to mend where frayed. Begin to build anew. Begin.
Even with the littlest, most insignificant thing, when it comes from love, we begin.
We begin with effort and the repose that follows effort, with silence or a solitary joy, with everything we do alone without anyone to join or help us, we begin building the Cosmic Story whom we will not live to grasp, any more than our ancestors could experience us. Yet they are in us, those long departed ones, they are in our inclinations, our moral burdens, our pulsing blood, and in gestures that arise from the depths of time.
So I begin.
A sculpture slowly unfolds within the minutes of the day. A day that leads to other days, to weeks, to months. Over the course of this sculpture’s making I will look out from beneath the roof of the studio and see the last autumn days play out, winter months come and go and spring meld into summer before completing what presently doesn’t even have a name.
So I begin.
I carve and look out into the fog. It’s softness calms me as I wrestle with creative worries. It reassures and tells me that the finished sculpture, like the hill top, might be hidden but it is there.
The path in the lower right corner indicates a possible direction with no clear end in sight. A beginning, it moves towards a solution and beckons me to start walking into the unknown as I have done so many times before.
And while stumbling my way along, I trust to stray within the mystery of creation. I willingly, with heart in hand, bumble lost.
Twenty stones are nestled into the body of a ancient slab of huon pine. Each stone has within it layers of the geologic past that reveal the inner seed that acts as kernel of the future. The wood itself will be carved to reveal a rippling wave of time that acts as carrier of past time.
The unborn being revealed through layers of history through time travel.