People I come across, myself included, but not solely so, have a longing: to be understood, to be seen, to be heard.

What happened? In some way, have we lost touch with who we are. If we found that place, perhaps we might just rest into being without a need for approval or validation. No need to be seen because there are mirrors, and plenty of them. We can see ourselves in every instant.

That place, that sweet spot, wants to breathe itself into existence and knows exactly how, at every moment, with no feedback necessary. That place just is. There is little more that needs to be said and yet I’d like to paint a picture with depth and detail, although one brush stroke of simplicity is complete unto itself.

We each are that one brush stroke. Absolutely complete. So complete that we can create life, whether it be the life of another, of a moment, a precious word, or an action.

Yet we grow tired, and tiredness, in its natural course, lulls us, dulls us, into a sleeping slumber that turns an eye to what is right here, glimmering, glistening saying, “Hey you! You are already whole! Nothing else is needed.”

One brush stroke, a masterpiece of its own innate creation. That place is full of a creative force that is like worlds, stars, the deep mysterious nature of oceans and nighttime skies—a whole universe.

When I pay attention, I feel my body warm with a vibration of power, somehow, magically inside of me. How did that power get there? Did it arrive or did I just wake up to its presence? Does this body contain the power? Am I somehow different from it? What is underneath this sheath of skin really? Do I have a purpose for being? Am I needed?

There are no mistakes with the process of creation. Maybe happy accidents, but no mistakes. Paint could not hit the paper in any other way; once started it is destined for the path of evolution. As painters, we can always adjust, adapt, and accommodate to what has gone before. Is a piece of art ever complete? Or do we go with it and keep creating anew? That is a choice we personally have; to decide for ourselves is what cultivates that type of living knowledge that knows, without question. To be the painter and paint, both, what a force!

Where is that place inside? Beyond seeking feedback from the rest of the world; that place is the world so generously giving back to all its children. Can you feel it? Touch it? Taste it? Do you find it, discover it, or uncover it?

I’ve been thinking lately how much the cavern of misunderstanding can be like, and how it so quickly gets deeper. Being misunderstood has a way of perpetuating feelings of separation, like water levels rising that carve away at canyon walls. Wider. Further apart. On either side yelling to each other: “Can you hear me?” “Hello?” “Is anybody over there?” Or growing silent. Longing for that connection. How can I cross over? What will it take to remember—nothing else is needed here.

My lungs tire from trying, and a thought comes like a stork with a message: just be.

Feel your own fullness. You will find a way. Earth, she changes, inevitably. Watch her. Engage your power of observation. You don’t have to do more, and there is nothing more they could give to you from over there that you don’t have in yourself. Take ease in knowing you each are looking at the same stars, lying on the same Mother Earth. That is connection.

Then you cross over into being, into that place.