Reverie
The creative process in various forms — such as composing a song, writing a book or a play, painting a landscape, chiseling a sculpture, choreographing a ballet, inventing a diagnostic machine, or discovering a formula is an extension of the Divine. Each piece is unique, and it has soul.
The murals that surrounded and animated the house on the cliff are gone. The lonely structure remains. It looks vacant despite being occupied. The bougainvillea on the steps and yellow bell vines on the trellis seem to have lost volume and color.
However, to the creator, the original art (frescoes) is never lost. It remains alive as surreal seascapes and sunscapes in the imagination, waiting to be reborn and painted in another form, a new medium.
Like the biblical story of Noah, a faint rainbow arched across the sky — radiating colors of the prism.
Tracing tentative steps, the beachcomber climbed the familiar craggy cliff. The panorama was breathtaking. The heaving sea, azure blue with white caps tossed a banca (small outrigger boat) and a catamaran with colorful sails. Powder puff clouds drifted across the sky. There were no traces of the recent storm — except for driftwood washed ashore and hundreds of leaves and broken branches on the beach. The high tide claimed the shells and swept over the steppingstones and pebbles.
For many decades, the rustic beach in the cove had been the seaside refuge from urban stress. It was a playground. A place to chill.
Déjà vu. It seems nothing has changed yet everything is different. Probably the changes are internal.
Perspective and perception.
The rolling waves crashed and splashed into millions of bubbles against the rocks. A seagull soared and dipped like a wayward kite. Little billy goats tiptoed along the steep trail of the cliff.
Not too long ago, two generations of fearless kids and their parents jumped from the popular cliff of another cove into the cerulean water below. They used to swim into the grotto underneath and played hide and seek inside the cave. Their carefree laughter magnified into deafening echoes. Those kids have grown up and now have small children and teenagers who want to jump into the chilly water too.
The grownups caution their little ones and defiant teens. They are protective because of the sharp rocks and strong waves. Where did their sense of adventure and fun go? Do people lose that mischievous streak of the Puer (eternal child) as they grow older and wiser?
Perched on the side of the cliff, a wanderer marveled as the Divine Hand took a giant brush and palette to paint the sky. The canvas was splattered with impressionistic dots and strong, energetic brushstrokes. A work in progress.
The golden orb began its solemn descent into a hazy horizon. Streaks of copper and rust rippled on the water as the sky turned into shades of peach, orange, magenta, crimson, and lavender.
The fresh salty air was heady — a cocktail of oxygen and the fragrance of wildflowers and wet grass.
The heart felt a sharp sting, a tight tug. The minutes ticked ever so slowly as the sun vanished while the moon rose from behind.
It had been so long since one had seen the phenomenon of simultaneous sunset and moonrise. A splendid synchronicity in nature.
Twilight turned the sky into a velvet backdrop. The evening star twinkled close to the moon. The planets and stars aligned into constellations. The north star was brilliant.
The luminous moon ascended and bathed the scene with a silvery sheen. The radiance of reflection was gentle and soothing to the heart.
In the mind’s eye, one saw the image of the beloved ones who used to share the glorious sunsets, the dramatic evenings with Mars so close to Earth, the random shooting stars on the windswept cliffs. The briny aroma of the monsoon wind.
After the storm, there is hope for a new life and more dreams.
Maria Victoria Rufino is an artist, writer and businesswoman. She is president and executive producer of Maverick Productions.
