The Seat of Knowing: An Intuitive Art Journey.

A painting, a year, a slow unfolding

It began not with a brush but with a walk.

Through Oregon's Alvord Desert. A dry place.

The kind of dry that scrapes your skin a little and makes your inner world louder.

I was thinking about what it means to know something.

Not in the mind or the "what I read" kind of knowing.

But the other kind. The kind that hums in your sacral center. The kind that makes your eyes soften and your shoulders drop. The kind that wakes you before dawn and whispers, yes.

That was a few summers ago.

The canvas sat blank for a while. I circled it, afraid and reverent. I drank coffee and stared at it, sometimes resentfully. I wrote words in my sketchbook like "root," "sacred interior," "land as mirror," and "old tree intelligence."

I sketched a mountain that looked like the one from my dream. I let it anchor the top of the world. I pulled a warm desert lake across the center, a place where the inner and outer landscapes could blur.

But the painting began when I let go of trying to make it look like anything.

It moved from me, not through me.

I painted a tree with vascular branches, veins instead of leaves.

A second tree grew with hollows like eyes, or portals.

In the bottom half, things got strange.

Feminine shapes arrived—eye and yoni, seed and sigil.

It felt primal.

A map of intuition.

The seat of knowing.

I layered in gold dots that reminded me of pressure points, acupuncture, ceremony. I thought of moss, of memory, of my grandmother's voice.

I cried while painting the magenta root lines.

I didn't know why.

This painting took nearly a year, in fits and starts.

I would leave it for months, then return with clearer vision.

Like the painting was waiting for me to catch up.

I've learned that knowing isn't static. It's tidal. It returns with the moon and disappears just as easily.

But it leaves clues.

Colors that haunt you.

Shapes that wake you in the night.

A tree that grows from your side.

I call this painting "The Seat of Knowing"

because that's what it became.

A visual record of my own becoming.

A place inside me that feels like home, even when I can't explain it.

If you stand before it, maybe it will speak to you too.

Maybe not with words.

But with the same humming feeling.

That low yes.