a vision journal
The mist lifted slowly from the meadow, and in its parting I saw shapes -- not quite animals, not quite clouds. They moved with intention, tracing patterns older than memory. I reached for my pigments and began to paint what I could not name.
There is a shade of amber that exists only in the hour when sunlight passes through autumn leaves and touches warm stone. I dreamt of this color. It spread across my palette unbidden, mixing itself with the ghost of rose until a new hue appeared -- one with no name in any language I know.
At the zenith, all shadows vanish. In this clear, honest light I see the connections: how this morning's portent links to yesterday's dream, how the colors in my palette mirror the colors in the sky. The mystical is not separate from the ordinary. It is the ordinary, seen truly.
The watercolors dry differently than I expected. The purple pooled where I didn't intend, creating a shape like a sleeping fox. I leave it. The paint knows things the painter does not. Each splotch of color carries its own small prophecy.
The day closes like a book whose final page you turn reluctantly. The light thickens to gold, then amber, then the deep brown of walnut ink. I set down my brush. Tomorrow the journal opens again, empty and waiting.