(Not entirely sure how the picture inspired this but it did so enjoy)

It was known as the festival of roses. The festival of love. We have a tradition in Regalia. During the summer, men grow roses for their chosen women they wish to marry. On the night of the August full moon, women stay in their homes and bake and get themselves all dolled up. Then the men go the house of their chosen girl’s door and hope she opens. If she doesn’t, then the men is rejected and shunned. If she does open, then he hands her the rose. If she then approves the rose, then the man is allowed into her house and gets to enjoy the food the woman makes. They are then pronounced husband and wife the next morning. The festival of love.

‘It’s almost like the figures are moving!’ And ‘the brush strokes are beautiful.’ We hear these words on a daily basis. What they don’t know is the figures actually are moving. Ever heard that Mona Lisa follows you with her eyes? Yep that’s probably true. Us paintings move and feel things the way you all do.

The painting up there? That’s ‘The field of greens and reds’ my home. It’s amazing isn’t it? The trees bend around me as I run through the blades of grass. I heard the birds chirping in the distance. Their sweet song ringing through the meadows. I reach the tree in the centre of the meadow and begin to climb, only ripping small parts of my perfectly painted dress.

I sit on top of the tree. This is where I spend most of my time. I can see all of the land from here. You want something more abstract just a 10-15 minute walk from the tree. I forget how beautiful it is up here. The butterflies flying in the wind. The orange and red trees swaying in the cold breeze. I think I’ll stay up here. Just for a bit. Until I next hear those words ‘that painting is so life like.’

Swirls of color paint the town, the time when Peace and Joy ought dance around. Healing families and giving hope, by being You and being the YOU who you are Created to be, in this life!

In this life! Now, not tomorrow. Now. We have to own it. “Own who you are.” This was a major boon and feed to my Spirit when I wrote my first book. Twenty years ago.

Own who you are. Vision’s Expression A motto for my mission. Own it. Whatever happens, I Know God holds me. In that I can find rest and grace. I no longer walk alone, Thank You Jesus.

Becky Butler

The reds spilled out of the can onto the pallet tempting him, tempting him. But the brush in his hand wouldn’t move no matter how hard he will it to swing and swirl. All was black, even his breath. All was not well, his chin drooped and a tear rolled down his cheek. No green greeted his eyes as they shifted to the window. Bare trees with branches broken. Craggy grey sky. No one walking by . . . Or anywhere. Even the quiet was black. His eyes shut. His heart wept and wept. When his eyes finally opened, they could hardly absorb the vibrant colors that had filled his canvas.

I want to live in the place where you can see sounds and smell sights. The beauty of being immersed in every sense. Red felt like love, blue feels like peace… Where is this place? It is in every painting, every photo taken, every breathe that is released. Breath in and exhale your wildest dreams.

Blistering smoke Richly strokes me Making my skin velvet

Watercolour Leaking Perfect portrait

Celebration Not so A culture I celebrate

Cloth cools me Religious pledge To my dna

Mixed sights Mixed sounds Mixed race

All perfect All whole All complete.

The scene was glorious. To the ordinary person, all they would see was the whiteness. The frigidness. To them, it would be empty. Like an empty house with white walls and no heater. Only coolness. Empty, white, and freezing. I see the colors. Each and every shade as it bounces off of the snow as if it was a trampoline. Simply reflecting. The freezing wind rushes across my face, adding a crimson tint to my nose and cheeks. It whips around my hair as the sun rays give it golden streaks. There are pastel colors reflecting in the snow. Pale colors, but oh, so beautiful. Baby blues and light pinks. Muted yellows and pastel greens. The snow was a giant blanket of Opals, each and every inch with it’s own distinct colors and patterns. Every speck of ice with it’s own tint. It’s own shade. It’s own hue. Christmas snow is wonderful. Beautiful. Wonderful. Unique. Magical.

Stores filled with endless fabrics, their vibrant folds shine amid the arid desert surrounding, spices stacked high in such a way that a slight bit of wind, one might think it would all blow away.

Colours shining among the sandy terrain, glittering and beguiling the area, it became such a festival due to the lights, shining as if an oasis in such desert.

Some rather known stalls stacked metres of fabric, different colours of red, blue and yellow. Woven and folded in such a fashion it mimicked the spice cones. An homage to the history of the area prior to it becoming a wonderland of varied spices and of glowing fabrics.

In this community, once a year was an event that noone would miss. It was a celebration of life and spring and seasons in general. It was also a celebration of love and a lot of weddings took place at that time too. They called it the resuscitation of spring and all took place around a giant tree: the tree of spring. This particular tree has been planted for generations before it could serve for the festivities. But once he was tall enough, everyone gathers around in bright colors and fine garments and started showing the tree with gifts, symbolic of si the good things they wished for the summer and the rest of the year. I never saw anything quite like it.

“What will it look like?”

The driver shrugs, left blinker tinking. “I’ve heard whatever you want, like your best memory.”

“What about your passengers? What do they say?”

He shrugs again, meaty shoulders pulling in his uniform. “Wouldn’t know. I only drive the first leg of the trip. Someone else brings them back.”

I nod though I don’t know if he notices, his head facing the road, eyes scanning the slopes.

I dig my fingers into my palms, watching the dense green trees swirl by. The bus lumbers up the hill, riding the curves, clambering it’s way to the top.

The shuttle bus squeals its way to a stop, engine groaning as the doors sputter open.

“Good luck, kid,” the driver tosses out. I scramble to my feet, shoes sliding and make my way down.

The doors clatter shut and a plume of dust surrounds me as the shuttle rumbles its way back down the mountain. The welcome center stands large and white, etched marble columns rising two stories. There no one there but the whisper of the wind.

I walk up the steps, white stone arching overhead and enter the vestibule. In the center, the floor dips down, the facing the four open sides.

There are no directions but I know enough of what I need to do.

I stand in the middle and wait, skirts gathered by my feet.

I glance around but it’s quiet, just my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

After two minutes, the tingles start, wrapping up my leg, like a vine climbing skyward. The sensation creeps up my leg and through my body until I’m stuck still, a human statue on the platform. My eyes shut themselves and all I see is black.

My hearts hammering, threatening to jump out and leave me behind. I’m frozen as the darkness of my mind presses up against me.

The visit starts with a pinprick, a tiny swirl of light, swooshes of red and green. The goddess has chosen to appear in swirls. It reminds me of the pictures of Christmas, the deep reds and Kelly greens, a season of joy from the old times, now only known in history books.

Whispers of a touch sweep through my brain as my thoughts and memories are search. It’s a gentle intrusion, but an intrusion none the less. My brain lies naked and my soul empty at the invasion.

The colors swirl closer until a woman’s face emerges. Her lovely face draws close, all soft slopes and graceful arches. Her luminous eyes hold mine, peering into me, to my very soul. “I see you and judge thee.”

I’m still frozen in place as the swirls of her face dance inside my eyes.

“I find you . . . wanting.”

With that she clicks off and my body is released. I tremble and open my eyes. I’m still alone though the light is dimmer.

The floor shakes at my feet.

Before I can run, the earth opens and I tumble down, fully enclosed in the darkness.