What is a garden, if not for the one you cultivate every day?

My garden, that little place I hold dear. For it is the one I have weaved through, the one I slowly caressed by touching little faces with gentle fingers and nurturing with my love. I have watered their soil from the tears upon my cheeks and shone them a brightness to warm their hearts with my own laughter. It is the Garden of all the gardens and the one I can not live without. This garden is as much my own breath inside my lungs. You might wonder what grows there, well, to me, it is the most beautiful of flowers there ever was to be. Their seeds came from the comet of my soul, languishing in the dawn of a waking dream and settling among the land when the sun hadn’t quite woken yet and as the stars are often still chattering among themselves, hadn’t fallen asleep.

A dream and wish that once had been the imagination of a girl’s mind had become a reality. Born from the heart of a Goddess, a Witch and now Mother. Three tiny souls found themselves inside my special garden. They only begged to one day emerge from my hands and spread their own beautiful seeds among the trees. I have loved them as I have watched them and now I see they are blooming. I did that. My heart and my hands have created beautiful perfection from the love inside my soul. It’s was a small price to pay to watch as they flourished under an opal moon and whisper promises that they too, would one day join the stars.

I have been a Goddess, a Mother and a Witch, weaving my spells for beauty, love and gratitude among the world and hoping for healing that only comes from within. If I have been these things, then so is every woman who has used her hands to channel the divine feminine inside her. The very power that given from God to heal this broken planet through the loving nature of her hands.

These tiny hands, and this mind that believes everything is possible.

There are so many things that intrigue, or cause wonder. For example, I wonder what makes people tick, why they do this or that. How does she sleep at night and what is her favorite bedtime story. I wonder what he does when he is bored and does he think about his life or things he might change. I wonder if she would have married different people or if he would have stayed, I wonder if he might have made better choices and then if he did, where would he be. What’s her favorite food and his favorite color. How do they hold their fork and do they eat with their mouths open or closed…. And yet all the while I wonder I am putting a million pieces of a puzzle together, totally unsure if I even put the pieces together in the right order or if by my own ignorance have put them together all skewed and jumbled. I wonder If there isnt picture at all, or maybe there never was one and.. Maybe, there was, but it’s not worth understanding. The real question is, what is the cost to understand these things. For me, it’s priceless to always be on a hunt to understand, to feel, to experience. I want the magical journey of understanding something, and so much so that it’s to the point of pure dissection. Unraveling the tiniest details of a person until there is nothing left but the very fabric of their being, particles and whispers. I don’t care if someone did the same thing to me, it’s just that no one ever has. Atleast none that I ever knew and I think I would since no one has ever asked me a million questions, prying into the very depths and analyzing my most treasured secrets, even the painful ones. I can’t quite say why I do it, or even still what the end goal is. I only know that I seek this knowledge, this ability to understand a person’s soul with fever and veracity. It’s so much apart of myself that curiosity can often fall into obsession. With obsession, I am often questioning if it’s an addiction to know. If what I seek to find is harmful, not for me but whoever it is I am peeling apart. What damage can be done but if there is damage can there not be salvation too?

When I said no one ever did this to me, I wasn’t being truthful. If I had been truthful in that sentence it would have been to say that I, me, myself have dissected, pulled apart and looked closely at myself. I have opened every single file, every dream, wish and memory. I have examined every emotion I experienced from pain and torment to loss, sadness and even joy. I have felt happiness and worn those feelings like a cloak to only further search for more answers. I suppose, all of this is, is just one more way for me to understand myself, almost as much I am letting you understand.

There is something that ticks inside the minds of us all. It’s the very thing that describes us and yet breathes life into our very existence. It’s the telling of who we really are and all the things that make us. When you take each of those elements and put them together it forms this incredible story, so unique that it can only be derived as uniquely as is your own finger print. Most stories never get written, or told for that matter. They are lived and then forgotten, just as quickly as they came to be. It’s incredible to think of all those lost books, all those untold stories, that lie hidden beneath layers of dirt or became the ash tucked inside a fancy jar. What become of all those stories, and where do they go? It’s evident that the very depth at which these stories thrived has already left their imprint upon this world. Those imprints became their own chapters fragmented by the loss of the original story. So, with that, I say it’s a disservice to live and not tell. How sad it must be to pick up a book with the middle or end missing. What do you ever truly know… Nothing

Tasseography (n) The divination of reading tea leaves. Prophecy (n) A prediction or second sight.

Curious minds for centuries have used tea leaves as a way to harness intuition into readable symbols, shapes and configurations. The enchanting art of tasseography, is merely the the ability to focus ones energy by directing it to project what is already inside of us. The blank panel/canvas, has become the ultimate tea cup with my energy being directed to the painting, much like the leaves in a tea cup. Each imagery, through imagination has surprisingly, foretold things in the creation process, taking on lives of their own, that not even I could fathom. Most things are very personal, raw and highly detailed to my life. They emit the very essence of my being, revealing my deepest thoughts. The biggest foretelling that I didn’t see coming was not only in my artwork but also my name. I suppose you could say I, they, have been morphing for quite some time, and much like a butterfly in stasis, I was growing into someone else, something else. The truth is, I haven’t really changed. In fact, I have simply returned to home to who I once was and although I once embraced the costumes I wore, I have shed them. What replaced those facades and emerged from the coccoon is who I always was. I guess it’s up to you to decide who or what that is. With that, I say to anyone just a little curious. If you want to understand my paintings, truly understand them, then you must first understand me. Without knowing me, the story is hidden beneath pretty paint colors and meaningless imagery. Of course, that doesn’t mean they aren’t able to be enjoyed without knowing anything, but then again, what is magic without a wish? What is a book without words? This blog, this place, is where my words can have the imagination to dream without cause. Theses printed words can cast the spell that enchants you just enough to know a story. One story of many different ones, however this one, this one is mine. – Mandi Fowler