I abandoned the grandeur of the quest and the might of the galleon ships, but I willed a simpler boat into existence through May Sarton’s ‘Prayer Before Work.’

There is a rising sun of gold, a sky and a sea of light pastel coloured blue hues mixed through pasty gesso and a rose-golden boat under sail filled with May’s prayerful words. There are layers to it, but very subtly, and only through brush strokes can one see the strange dynamics of the jounrey.

I am inclined to think that all 15 paintings are saying just one thing: I saw it too, Nick; all of it! I saw it when I was 22 years old on the day my father died and Pavarotti sang me to the mountaintop. It changed me profoundly.

Every time I experienced a great loss, but especially after my father passed, I felt as if my life emptied itself out into a barren state. My actions were carried out mechanically; life, my own life, somehow moved on without me being properly present, and I was in some sort of holding pattern—removed, curled up, folded, and tucked away, hopelessly lost and beyond repair in space. I imitated what I felt was a necessary means of survival without conviction. What I yearned for was transcendence, and nothing proved a better vehicle than music. I could reach the mountaintop through music, and what I saw was endless beauty and endless pain. The whole world sang both songs simultaneously—the song of beauty and the song of pain. And in the middle of that music was a deep silence in which I wanted to rest for eternity.

I could see my father on the side of the road if I wanted to. I could see him collect stones at a beach; I could see him smile at me in this crooked way of his. I could see patterns in the sky that I turned into my own constellations of hope and grief. I could create a whole world connected with meaning that was exclusively my own and yet not of my making.

I am not really interested in analysing this to the n-th degree, and interpretations will vary depending on the tribe of the observer. But I don’t really care about tribes, be they of origin, creed, sexual orientation, politics, philosophy or psychology.

I care about the whole thing in you, in me, and every other being that is of this pain and this beauty. I say this poorly, for which I am sorry. Worse, I still haven’t managed to stay true to this seeing—I still kill mosquitoes, ants, and flies. I eat meat. This might not sound that bad, but it is!

I am still learning to sail this ship, and you have become a wonderful guiding beacon on the journey. Before long, I will have to sail on without you by my side, which makes me sad, but I know you are out there and I have your music for company.

Much love, much faith, and much hope for your journey, for mine, and for everyone.

Cordula