Can it be this simple..? Can it be this… literal?

So now when I see a couple of roses, I can’t help but see the dyad, the double, the original twins, the mirror and the ideal friend.. all the while longing for the merge back to unity and peace. And only when I am there fully, maybe, can I see two roses again.

crossing over

Close-up of the Helix nebula
photo from Wikipedia NASA, NOAO, ESA, the Hubble Helix Nebula Team

Leave the body
Through the crown
Straight into the stars, and back to earth.
To Something else


The golden flower/ Eros

Hilma Af Klint, 1906-07

At some point in the healing process, we return to the simple enjoyment of things here on earth, no more sticking to ideas, no more seeking, no more pursuits or identifying. We delve in those spaces, only for commentary, only to play. We are free to switch back and forth.

One masters Truth, and the other one Love, until both merge into silence. We were already there. But every road is necessary, and as long as we return, it’s okay to wander.

Emma Kunz study

Emma Kunz (1892-1963) was a Swiss artist, healer and spiritual researcher, born to a family of weavers. She made large drawings on graph paper, one of which I reinterpreted here with embroidery.

Inside the « grotto » at the Emma Kunz zentrum in Wurenlos, Switzerland, where she found her healing rock « Aion A ». Now something to ponder on : a very established contemporary artist says that her work is pretty insignificant at this time -artistically speaking- but that she is of great importance for human evolution. Which one will last? Which one do you choose if there is such a choice to make?

Brazil on a quartz mine

Entering the gate.
Remembering the North Pole and back.

Delving into the Brazilian spiritualist traditions to dig into the fear and rejection of spirituality as a form (objects and rituals), as well as ancestral patterns with the cult and occult. The day I arrived a man told me about soul connections, Kundalini and the blue pearl. The day I left, I saw light beings dancing all around me and a duet rising far up in the sky. In between, a psychic surgeon -in jail today- scratching the eyes of an old man with a kitchen knife.. and people from all around the world in search for less suffering.



Who’s calling?

Tales from Brittany #3


Jumping from mind to mind, stuck in obsessions, the little things of others, the little worries of others. She channels the possibilities. « Let go, let go even more, until there is nothing left. » Caught in aerial thoughts, she flies away, she hides in the clouds. I want to be safe, I want to belong. Birthing on earth as she goes, it’s a long landing on the fastest route. 21 years of age.

A cardboard box full of colorful feathers

Small objects from her travels

Ottoman oracles

Lie on the table.

Once in a while she reaches out from the ethers where she serves for the souls.
« I help them go away, I light them a candle for a smoother transition. »

A tale from Brittany #2

Our land is fleeting
From idoles to icons
As we progress through the greens
Layering its wilderness
What is this church
Which tells a story
In praise of the Seven
The Grail

A blue pearl rises
Wearing the purple robe
To celebrate the marriage
For the twos
And the third

The universal
White star

A snake is spiraling up

I came here with company
Two haunting ghosts
In place of shadows
Until they cut the knots
Until they cut the ties
Unchained from Egypt
A young woman
Giving birth
To the moon and the sun
And a lost son
Who never came back
Repeated tragedies
Cross many lifelines
Filling our fantasies
With unpalpable truths
As ways to cope
For the oldest souls
Coming over once again
To replay their wounds
And the love is still here
Familiar and sweet
For a recognition so rare
In a world full of strangers
Like knowing each others habits
Like reading each others depths
But there is a hole somewhere
A gap
An ancient pain
That needs to be felt again

In between churches
In Iran or Istanbul
She seeks for the traces
The legacy of Saint John
Hinting the minds of the awakened
Through the blink of an eye

On a heart shaped rock
Sits the young woman
With he
Who used to be her husband
Across from a thin line
Created by erosion
A script is at play
In form
In fiery bodies
As time collapses
To smokey memories