What a blessing it has been to display my art at Boulder Shamhbala Center, a place graced over the years by so many realized beings — those whose message of spontaneous awareness have woven through our hearts year after year.
I remember standing at the foot of our stairs on Cascade Street and presenting Rinpoche with a calligraphy I’d brushed that said True Heart in Chinese characters. It was 1980 and I’d practiced for months, and finally assembled a character properly.
He smiled broadly — more animated toward me than usual. “You have done this before,” he said, delighted.
Something in me exhaled. I’d found a language I could speak with him. At last I had a place to channel my chi and a meditative way to do it. My art had no discipline before — I painted like a mad woman. Now I had brush, ink, and twelve strokes.
