New Year, New Gardens, or the Alchemy of Van Gogh

Vincent Van Gogh, "The Poet's Garden," 1888.

On January 3, 2019, I went to the Art Institute in Chicago, when attending a conference of the Polish American Historical Association. I flew in on a red-eye to make time for this visit and it was well worth the effort.

At Art Institute

dark netting of winter trees

catches the sapphire

the viri-green lion

welcomes me under the azure

dressed for Christmas

how to be meek?
only with gold pattern imprint
upon the air

No, I have not seen everything, not even close. But I found a new Van Gogh I never encountered before, some new Monet's and a friend, an Ascended Master from ancient India, smiling at me across the centuries.

On Being Green in Vincent's Garden

A white rose faints

on a cement sidewalk.

Crisp clear azure sky

encloses the city in a cupola.

Art vibrates on the walls

of the Art Institute guarded by

green-patinaed copper lions

in bright Christmas wreaths.

Van Gogh waits for me.

Frowning, uncertain.

Yes, I love your iridescent greens,

celadons, aquas, emeralds, jades.

The vibrant grass, uncut new meadow

and the explosion of bushes and trees

vibrating with the full force of life

Leaf opens after leaf - after leaf -

exploding with cosmic energy

alive - so alive - so  alive - so alive

so real, emerging from canvas

coming into becoming - stretching - 

growing - being - breathing -  alive -

Even the sky vibrates in hues of green -

and yellow, turquoise and aqua

Each plant, tree, bush marked with a thick

layer of paint, intense brushstrokes.

I understand now. Vincent was one

of us, the seeing ones. Awake.

He could not tell us any louder

than in this saturated greenest paint:

Open your eyes.

We are all here.

The world is ours

to see.

Before visiting this timeless art, I paid homage to the mysteriously alive lake, licking the shore with its waves, all made of the precious hues of jade.  Here I illustrate it with a painting of a sea...

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, "Seascape," 1879.

A Treasure Hunt

The jade lake waits for me, I know it's there,

turning turquoise and lapis at the horizon.

Restless, it is confined by stone walls

of the harbor - but still remembers

the delight of our date in September,

its massive waves, wind-shorn breakers,

breathing in the ancient rhythm of wind

and earth. Wave after wave, lapis and jade,
droplet to droplet, rain into stream
into river into lake. Into the ocean.

I walk to the museum. Tiny green twigs

sprout between dead leaves to give me hope,

so much hope. Oh, there you are, my lovely,

my sweet - you know the secret of being,
growing, laughing in sunlight. A small square
of soil surrounds sleeping trees; sighs heavily

imprisoned among cement sidewalks

and asphalt streets. I found life in Chicago.

Who said, you could not?

On my last day in Chicago, after all was over, I left some time again for doing the "touristy" things. I went again to the lake, but it was too windy, only the lone kite danced on its long string. So I returned between the tall buildings, and went to the Wallis Towers to look down on the city, from above.  I thought of what I heard in my last tour, of the suffering and darkness of each metropolis, and of the light you can suddenly find in a friend's eyes.

As Above So Below

Up on the top of the world

103 floors above ground to be exact

I drew my strength from brown squares

of dead grass, from jade waves of the sleeping lake,

from clouded sky.

The city was so dense, its air filled with toxins,

my ears assaulted by the noise, day and night.

Once 800,000 heads of cattle crowded

Chicago stockyards - herded to die, to die, to die...

What a dark city. Shadows around it.

Rickety stairs in narrow workers' huts

with stained, blank windows. Bricks

almost touch train cars wheezing,

speeding by.  You'd think: "Hell on Earth."

You'd think: "Escape from darkness!

Run, now!"

Maybe, just maybe, you'd see

a tiny twig of hope, a green sprig

growing where the earth could not 

breathe or sigh, en-burdened with

its heavy toil. And then, a miracle of art. 

I walk upstairs and stop

in front of a thousand-year-old

carving. His eyes smile at  me;

his hair, upswept ad knotted.

Here's my brother who tread this earth

before me. Here's Lord Maitreya.

He tells me how to live in this dense,
saturated  blackness, opaque
like rivers of dry, icy blood,

brittle like burnt bone. How to
turn inward, make it all sparkling
again, breathe in the vibrant 
energy of life, from waves, from air...

An interesting experience, looking into the eyes of thousands-years-old sculpture and feeling a recognition of the person portrayed within. So pleased, so serene, so peaceful. Fascinating!

I wished the lake

into azure above the city

that never sleeps

After coming home, I unexpectedly descended into shadows, same old tired feelings resurfaced that I carefully suppressed and put away on a shelf of "do not touch, do not use." In vain. They come back if they want to. Maybe for the last time? Finally, I figured out what to do with them, though, how to transmute them in the alchemy of emotions.

On Landscapes: A Guidebook

First you cross the Salt Plains of Rejection

into the Desert of Abandonment.

Mount Disappointment lies just beyond

The Valley of Regret. This is a huge country.

You lived there for decades. You explored

every nook and cranny; path, boulder, crevice.

Ever since your mother disappeared
for five months and a year. Ever since
you learned to write at six to send her
your desperate pleas: “Mommy, come back.
Mommy, I love you. Mommy, why don’t you
love me, any more?” You re-lived this story
time and time again. In every marriage, romance. 

Now you know too well how it feels.
Now you can open the enchanted book
and say the words of magic.

You pour out a River of Molten Light –
dazzling, white hot, yet cool to touch –
over the chaff of broken feelings, the dust
of memories you wish were not yours
to keep and gather for the Ancient One.

The chaff burns.
The shadows flee.
You find a grain of gold
Under your feet.
Smooth, shiny, polished,
It is yours to keep.

Is it a grain? Look closer, a golden acorn
rests in the palm of your hand. Plant it
in Guilt Valleys. Plant it in the Deserts 
of Despair. plant on Fear Mountain slopes.
Plant on wind-swept Polains of Sorrow.

It grows so fast. Soon, a magnificent oak tree
spreads out its gold leaves and boughs.
New life in your Landscape of Desolation. 
Look through its branches. Be mindful, 
attentive. What do you see?

Here: the Fertile Fields of Bonding.

There: the Rainbow Meadows of Connection.

Look carefully now. See the Pristine Peaks 
of Fulfillment, the Sun Garden of of Gratitude? 
Filled with every kind of fragrant blossoms, 
the heady perfume of rose and jasmine, 
the delicate scent of lavender and forget-me-nots. 

Liquid melodies of birdsong in the air.

This is not a mirage.  
This is your own world 
to conjure up, delight in.

Here. This gold grain is for you. 
Will it become an acorn or 
a pine cone in your hand? 

Come. Let's plant it 
and watch it grow.

(c) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk