Calling what I found magic is probably not accurate however, it is adequate for now. Perhaps frequency would be closer but it also doesn’t quite reach it. Magic fits better because for me it is still mysterious.
It happened in a flash, forty years ago, but to tell the story, the happening is multifaceted. It begins with an interesting photo appearing while having lunch with a group of girls.
One of the girls was passing around photos of her weekend camping trip. When it was my turn, flipping through the pack of photos, a head shot of the vibrant young woman captured my interest. The intense attraction pushed me over polite lines and I asked if she would part with her photo. Since we were but acquaintances, the request was bold. Society was tighter and more prudent back then. The request could have been understood as creepy. One of her eyebrows raised slightly but she smiled and gave me the photo. I was thrilled!
The desire to paint her fiery spirit was exciting and dabs of red and yellow were passionately placed on a blank canvas.

Once her face was done however, I fell into a quandary.
How would I finish this painting? I didn’t want it to be a portrait but yet what the piece was about or what it could be eluded me.
In the past, when these quandaries would arise, I would stop painting. My inner critic would tear me apart accusing me of not being an artist who would have known what to do. Fortunately, at the time of this story, I was practicing a new approach to my creativity. I was letting my inner critic, a nagging facet of me, rant on without protest.
The critic’s reputation as had been explained several times is a protective and crucial part of doing well in life. Contrarily in my experience, its kindness (sarcasm here) has broken my spirit and defiled my feelings. However, once understanding the critic was not a good friend, after learning blocking or ignoring would result in increased negativity, I was searching for another method.
Whenever I tried to do art, the critic would taunt me with its doubts and fears. Quickly spent, I would become confused, unable to continue. That day I was exercising out a new idea, I was letting the critic jabber away until it was done. The critic was my intellect, a facet of me installed in my programming by my environment. It was also a blockage to my art. Currently, I was practicing bravery in the face of its tirade since pretending it didn’t exist empowered rather than weakened its force.
I had begun following whims of a sort. I was following my heart’s pull. The moment I would feel a stirring in my heart, I would pay attention and consider what it was ‘communicating’.
Art was often uncomfortable for me because I never had an idea of what to do. Although, I had a strong desire to draw or paint, art was remarkably confusing.
That day, I was practicing waiting – for something different, something other than the usual complaints. I was waiting for a pressure that would begin in my heart and end in a something other than the habitual criticisms. This method was difficult since I had to sit still and listen to my critic’s barrage of what wasn’t good enough; chiding me for not knowing how to finish the painting, ridiculing me for having painted without plan the face on the canvas. Nevertheless, I heard it and let it go by, waiting for something else. After some time, finally, a reward rose suggesting the next step.
“Look around the room and let a desire rise in you, just like it was when you saw the girl’s photo.”
I complied.
On the floor, my basket filled with magazine and newspaper clippings, caught my interest. One of the clippings, a murky black and white image of a ballet dancer suggested I put it under the fiery face of the girl.
Now suggestion is not the correct word for how can a newspaper clipping suggest anything. But nevertheless, the idea to put the ballet dancer under the face of the girl appeared in my mind.
My critic went wild with ridicule intent on saving me from this silly error that would drive my painting into complete failure. Nonetheless, determined in my new practice, I overrode its taunting and added the dancer under the face. When I finished, the critic was right, it did look ridiculous but now, too far in to stop, shrugging, I left the dancer under the portrait and filled in the background. The painting was finished.

The next day, observing my finished piece, I laughed at my spontaneity. The critic gleefully counted all the things that were wrong! I waited until it was spent and after a bit of silence, a different thought arose:
“This shows a being who is trying to stand up with a vibrant, fiery and passionate woman, isn’t this exactly what is happening to you in your personal life?”
(I was recovering from a nervous collapse).
Stunned, agape with wonder, I asked how could an absolutely correct communication have been born from random choices?
I had no direct intention to paint the concept that magically had been painted! Then, who or what had painted it?