A series of 9 paintings was inspired by a line of Rumi: Out beyond there is a field, I meet you there....
at first I was just thinking of the meadows by the river I would walk through during the year, observing the ever changing color and textures of nature. Then I saw the metaphor also the unfolding of a relationship requiring to :"go to this field - and meet each other without blame, in order to grow.
I painted the paintings, then Joseph Bottone, the poet, sat with each painting and wrote a poem for each:
poetry by Joseph Bottone ©
paintings by Brigitte Brüggemann ©
This kind of meadow requires reverence
our Iroquois guide held us back
till we saw the myriad life there bobbing
and dancing -
said there are nature spirits here
like the pollen you don’t see
nourish the honey bee
At the end of the branch, perhaps
only one flower will bloom. Stay a while
there is promise here
in all that you are looking for
most subtle magic gloriously present
Have you seen angels like these
partially hidden in the buttercup flames of autumn
move the leaves gentle breeze
silence alive in you, a quiet joy in seeing.
Sometimes there is inexplicable weeping
ideas once tenable become altogether obsolete
between day and night there is reconciliation
storm clouds become summer rain
Look up in the trees as the light filters through
and now, turning, your arms outstretched
loose yourself, rise and be carried off
to whispers and summer seduction
in the sheltering trees
I see storms and chaos
churning rain in the groaning
and peace a plenty imagining things
I would walk here on a summer day
as evening painted brilliant colors on what
moments ago seemed a static green. Is not
transformation what we are hoping for in our lives
we can rest here a while and listen
I was lost in the mystery of what opened
before me, grasses green as fire,
cobalt outcroppings screened behind wild foliage
suggestions of something surmised
in pink swaddled low clouds.
this atmosphere holds a secret we wish to enter
And there she is in lavender,
ephemeral, fairy-like
humble, some might call a weed flower
but to me regal as any queen
come upon by chance
her eyes gazing up, indifferent
to who might pass her by
Winter hush draped over
in new snow. A time when the green world
has gone into it’s sleepy house.
Spring, serenely confident, sleeps a while longer
will emerge in perfect form to break some heart.
The river too, hidden beneath snow covered ice
flows over its rocky bed in perpetual anthem
Joseph Bottone
©