Naomi Brosnan

Trickle of Truth

Naomi Brosnan — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 10:23:30 +0000

Photograph by Artist

A trickle of truth with the life span of a puddle in the midday sun. The stain remains as a reminder of it’s existence, micro minerals sparkling in an invisible realm. Truth surrounding us in tangible invisibility … is it all about faith?. Believing in the transformative moment, waiting to wake up to the possibility of creating something real. My faith remains hidden in the rich silt, like the distant waterfall in memory of a moment lived. I am pushed to enter into the fray and create new moments or I shall drown in these stagnant waters of past glories that shackle me. In a strange way they keep me safe and stuck … feeding off the marrow of the carcass that once walked in the wild.

All this talk of freedom makes me pound harder against the glass of containment that has grown up around me. I long to be barefoot again yet I do not remember how to untie these boots. The solutions that once worked are fragile and broken, rules have eroded and evolved. Looking into the void I see nothing and have no patience to let eyes adjust to the total darkness of what may be. So I shall bind myself to this chair and wait beyond hunger for my eyes to adjust and begin to see glory once more.

All the murmuring expectations will take time to run their course and I do not know if they will ever really be silent, but I hope. With hope there is fertile ground for positivity and for now that is more than enough.

Trembling Leaves

Naomi Brosnan — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 19:41:18 +0000

Photograph by Artist

The trembling of the leaves seems more personal as I stand here open to the connection that calls from my trees. This Beech was only a dozen leaves old when she called to me to enter the circle…It is a staggered affair now, but as I really look it is still a place which contains some natural magic. The darkness at my heels questions the possibility…

It is always a birth after such a void of dark thoughts, a dance that I must dance to seal the birthing again to life. A dance of bestial intent with a raw desire for passionate movement…In the forest amongst the spirits of the grove, feeling their rhythm and peace being lost in the soft earth and moss, that quenches my thirst to be filled. Filled with wonder of an innocence that remains a constant presence in the wild places, places formed with the wind. I seek the wild places that have been formed in me.

Memory reminds me once more to walk upon the path of my people. I find it in music no question, in notes that resonate with such extreme beauty…There is nothing quite like making music even if it is only for a long moment. It seems that the moment is the thing that stays far beyond it’s experiencing. Past informing the future becoming eternal. Many moments have gathered like leaves in the wind, I make a bed with them on which to lie. Dreaming of so many possibilities without a commitment to live any one with real vigor…I suppose it is in my nature that is water, always changing depth and perspective…probably need to build a few dams at least long enough to finish the manifest thought! Instead a trail of thoughts gather in my tail, dragging on the forest floor of my imagination.

Ancestors and Heroes

Naomi Brosnan — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 12:09:42 +0000

Pen Drawing on paper 2011 - 18cm x 20cm - €150 Unframed Available from Artist

Searching for words to heal, to carry truth and reside in a peaceful place, sitting well with themselves; ever moving but centered. Letting go and being aware of all that transpires around you, enjoying the detail without pain of examination and categorization. Back… back to a place where the single drop took president and became a gateway to raw wonder.

A place where instinct becomes the vessel for intellect. The home of moving truth that whispers over the still water, the etched marks on the surface remain for an eternal moment. This happening only one form of an infinite set of truths.

The etched marks on stone, it’s veins and patterns telling a story of ages passing … and still it is but one story in an infinite set of stories.

The trees that have laid in the bog for thousands of years, whispering stories of Ancestors and Heroes alike.The deep rich bog like an earth ocean, holding history in Her flesh. Bog Oak and bog yew have such souls, maybe even parts of us that have come before still present in the wood. These etched lines are deep and subtle, these lines are all about Earth.

Sea Of Mind

Naomi Brosnan — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 07:09:42 +0000

'Sea Of Mind' 50cm x 112cm - €1,500 - Unframed Available from Artist

In this sea of mind matter, parts detaching themselves from the embryonic form that is undergoing the change of shedding parts. Movement from the ocean caries the newly freed parts to where they are needed, gives the sense of motion in constant presence…The waters are just a little darker now but the essence of presence remains bright on the dark sea. So it shows me that pain is both unavoidable and intensely beautiful in a visual sense.

Half Dome Above Clouds, Yosemite

Naomi Brosnan — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 06:33:31 +0000

The long days are here again, there is a bite to the air and my senses are cleansed by the crisp morning. The mist that hangs low over the fields caught by the rising sun is truly a magnificent sight. One cannot help but think of our myths and legends of the Sidhe in the mist, on the ground and in the sky. Ireland is so familiar to me, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the land under foot. I have known people who carry a handful of earth with them as they travel, but we are a whole planet and the natural spirits that are so familiar to us travel on the wind. Their familiar places unrecognized seem so exotic, though they are surely prehistoric.

There is a sameness that has prevailed in nature on my travels, those who walk and scurry upon her may differ but the rhythm remains in tune, familiar like a heart beat. Though my travels have been limited I have been amazed at how at home I have felt and how familiar these new places are…Maybe it is some kind of genetic memory that dwells in the soul…And oh my how is sings when in the presence of mist and mountain.

When I saw this photograph my conscious mind illuminated flashes of travel…The obsidian I bought from the old trading station just outside Yosemite National park. It is incredible how the climate changes as you drive up and in, this place that smells of red wood trees and sleeping bears. This ‘ half dome above clouds, Yosemite ‘ had me nestling in the cracks just above the clouds. It holds magnificent detail, I can almost see my own tiny form amongst the trees. The original photo holds a superb amount of detail, it is hand printed on silver gelatin, 2010. To view a better image go to the source…www.rafal.net

Bealtaine

Naomi Brosnan — Mon, 02 May 2011 10:11:30 +0000

Bealtaine is upon us, her passion on the wind and in the sunshine that illuminates all these thorns in my hands. Digging away at the memories of this life, a cycle returning to spill the essence of desire on the stones again. Each thing quivering with a desire to be more of itself. Truth buried like the thorns in my hands, present yet covered. I can feel a journey beginning to whisper with more urgency, somehow closer to a truth that I must uncover.

The hope of resolution and growth is more than I have dared to think about in a while. A way to break back into the flow, through my own barricades. With so much positive force present in the cycle it is simply a matter of doing. To enter the great hall once again for the tango of the soul…pure instinct is the only way with which to dance this dance.

Spring Equinox

Naomi Brosnan — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 23:57:33 +0000

Walking outside with the near dark, an invitation to live and breathe deeply in is issued. Smells of a stirring earth, bird song in the bushes and the rooks making themselves seen and heard in their dusk dance. Life expressing itself laterally, a oneness in the whole diverse notion that is growth. Scents of spring and it’s energy hit me almost simultaneously, in my mind’s eye arms are horizontally outstretched…I am once again uncovered and basking in the glorious sensation of feeling connected to this movement of growth. This state is saturated with joyful hope, every new fiber and cell brimming with potential. New life readying itself for the big break-out into the world.

I was once in a place where I celebrated these things with quests and visions. Climbing mountains and seeking caves with the metaphysical spirit dwelling deep within the old forest. In the wild the laws are different…with leaf and berry and bird as your witness. The fluency of nature is always louder in nature’s wilder places. It grows, I like to think as our imaginations do, in eloquent chaos. Space for the unknown and the dark to dwell in, as themselves without malice. Opposites in harmony with each other, each true to itself, working together in a dance that balances sustainable life and sustainable thought.

As time continues it’s spiral there are moments that remain an eternal present. Memories that touch upon places in us that have existed far beyond our perishable matter and it’s unfolding science. Our souls bridge the apparent gap that empirical knowledge leaves. Old wisdom built on faith and trust in oneself and one’s path. The ability to connect to other realms in nature, seeking knowledge with a light foot in both worlds. This time of equal light and dark supports the process of finding balance. Time to be nourished by the wisdom of our ancestors.

Writing

Naomi Brosnan — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 00:35:18 +0000

I approach again with a need to write …The waves of intellect have crashed on numerous occasions against my will, like the waves that roar with the sheer power of the ocean, white water power. The foam I consider to be the evidence of passion is all but expunged by frivolous over thinking and an ultimate descent into pointlessness. I had deceived myself into thinking that I had nothing constructive to say. There I sat for weeks, head spinning ravenous thoughts around in a spiral, like a pac man munching up all the delicate passion.

My head still spins with forming thoughts holding tension that I must release. The mounting unexpressed minions dragging me to a place where nothing is soft enough or clear enough. The pointlessness dresses my soul in the foulest of rags, and does not even take joy in it’s victory! The odor has grown to a stifling intensity, it acts like a drug that changes my perception… finally I move to open the window. New air has such fragrance that it makes my mouth water, a desire for something other begins to manifest. I find myself naked and clean with a fresh stack of enthused potential.

Maybe now that I have my own permission thoughts may be allowed to crystalize at a natural pace instead of speeding in confinement. The act of writing begins the release of debris, the rattling of chains and the chink of light. The motion of doing has the tendency to quiet the mind, fishing out those core truths. Instead of shooting fish in a barrel one gazes upon the vast open nature that is their habitat. Writing creates room for ideas and their details, slightly apart from the chaos but still connected. The deep multidimensional well of reality is in constant motion, full of the diversity of many mundane acts. The rich and beautiful notion of prayer and altruism. Routine that is gently laid upon the rest of the random mind.

Bridget’s Night

Naomi Brosnan — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 23:31:58 +0000

A windy night with the fences banging their weight against the concrete…I like the sound, a natural composition making itself heard here in suburbia. The elemental force behind it trembles my soul, reacting in delight at Her presence…The Smith, The Poet, The warrior. In older memory still she is known as The Shining One with the blood of the Faye running through Her. She is, in our beautiful celtic way scattered throughout the land and the spirit , a part of who we are without thinking.

Her night, a marker in the dark haze of an uncovering winter, a seed of light for the spirit to see, an idea for the mind to hold. And for the imagination of the future that will be. Bridget holds us this night ( those who would be held ) and kisses our prayers with the dew. She creates a space where it is easier to trust the light that you feel, this is ancient knowledge settled into the night. A womb to grow those fragile hopes in a tangible way, where the bright gentle ideas have tenure. Innocence makes a gallant return to the stage where her bed is waiting. She is full of that pure desire to live and dream.

Remembering the nights that have gone before, some in silence and some in splendor, these accrue to an inherent sense of responsibility gathering in my blood, gathering in my years. I am touching upon a place of peace. Releasing old barriers from their posts, creating space along the way.

Darkness

Naomi Brosnan — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 09:19:40 +0000

As a sort of numbness creeps with this tangible darkness that is passing, it felt as though all was lost as it should be with this shedding of skins. I had forgotten how much struggle is involved with this dance, for when the struggle resides deep in the very foundation there is no escape nor reprieve…death is inevitable. It is not the final one, we die many many deaths. In cycles our skins are shed and by times the examination of the rotting remains becomes a consuming appetite. Those are decent times when my mind can meander and have fun with the notion that I created this debris with living. The dying cells with birth beneath them.

To die is to live without any expectation, to accept this change and enter into a void of life with no memory of it’s beauty. As I breathe in this place of bitter belonging, slowly letting go of all the emotions that crest and crash upon my heart. A withdrawal from all the lies that were somehow enveloped as truth, the crutches and shadows. The darkness as velvet and beautiful as it can be is also a place where there is nowhere to hide. This darkness of mind supported by the season, dredging the emotional archives again for all that has been released this time round. What moldy rags from the past shall I uncover… I am surprised at what falls out of the pockets, a shining thing form 1995. It has no baggage, only a pure radiating energy of complete belief in painting, in creativity as a force.

It transports me to place of such ease and belonging in my skin. The memory of free flowing connection with the world in trust that was so complete it guided my soul. That kind of trust is beautiful and powerful to the point of being intoxicating. Trusting the truth of beauty that my heart sees, making a place for innocence. A place to really listen to the silence, knowing ancient songs are playing. Peace found in the precious silence of a beating heart, a primal nature waiting there. It covers the place with hope and resurrection. Emerging from the stillness each new thing has its wonder.