The Synchronicity of the Strange

I believe there is so much more to all this than what I see with my eyes. I believe we are not just interconnected, but in fact one being. The language of this unity, is love, and the notion some of us name God is ubiquitous. Almost everything I do attempts to convey this truth, which “cannot be perceived, but only known.” Nature is the mirror and the light source both, beyond words and verbal expression. Yet it is with words that I build the small and fragile foundations of understanding, knowing full well that understanding is no destination, but an endless process that circles back on itself, spiraling and weaving, unraveling and re-forming, like strands of DNA.

The camera is a dowser’s wand. The camera is the ultra-violet eye. Through the product of the camera I see beyond veneers.

The body wanders through the landscape of Earth. It moves in physical space, bound to the top most layer of the crust. The eyes wander in the orbits of the face. The body carries the head through tall grasses and stands of Bay Laurel and Oak. The eyes, the brain. A system of pattern recognition. Line weight, shadow, the textures that comprise a field of view. The eyes are ever-scanning; consistent patterns, uniformity within a given context, rhythms of geomertry and light. This is safety. The eye-brain is highly tuned to movement and breaks in the pattern. It reacts to shadow. Darkness. Black. This is danger, this is fear. This is also opportunity.

Nature teaches me who I am, what I am, by offering me the only treasure that cannot be bought and sold – the unique synchronicity of a discovery of a talisman, a portal pointing to the formlessness beyond form. My quest is always for this. It begins with the eyes as carried by the body. The eyes tuned for pattern breaks. The odd flash of ligjht. The outlier in the set. I am not interested in the familiar. I am a hunter of the strange. What breaks the pattern, what does not belong. And often it is white. White in the forest is the rarest of colors. Pure white. A glow, a flash, a hint of something interesting that just might speak.

To get to the light I must wade through the darkness. I must not avoid the shadows. I must crouch, and crawl, and get wet and dirty and covered in ticks and poison oak. The hero must pay for the boon. The body seems to suffer for what the mind has forgotten. The restoration of memory seems to come at a price. But what bones teach me is the lesson of impermanence. Clever constructions of calcium that they are, they no longer fool me. They are but eye-candy for the notion of death. Complexity is the greatest of all illusions, but complexity is not of God, nor are binaries.

In this intricate portrait of Nature, discovered on my never-ending pursuit of the strange, my eyes led me to the truth, again, and my camera captured but a node – the final waypoint in but one journey, another lesson, another reminder, another piece of a puzzle that appears less and less cut by a jigsaw. I imagine a hand moving through water, making ripples on the top.

o O o

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