Wild Horses


This is mural art displayed on the interior wall of the garage at the Bohemian’s home in the Moravia region of the Czech Republic. In this country, structure is art. There is no separation. This gigantic etching is just another ‘of-course’ in Czech life. A formidable work existing as simple backdrop behind ladders, bicycles and storage bins.

It is not the work of a family member, rather, a stamp left behind by a regional artist that I believe was the original owner of the home. The Bohemian’s family has been in this house for decades, moving back and forth beneath this mural, entering and exiting the nearby front door for more than twenty years.

I wonder what this massive piece is about. There is no one to tell me what it means.

The symbology of horses, born wild and tamed by humans. Have these two been domesticated? The dark horse and the white one, head to head, rearing, as if to…fight? Or meet?

I think of the Bohemian and his twin brother, delivered with only minutes of life between them. Both boys grew. One went West, the other stayed in the East. I reflect on the rituals of fathers and sons, wrestling through a lineage.

Strength. Power. Good. Evil. The duel of duals.The dichotomy within us all.

That tree-lined path between, seeming to lead home.


At 5:43am in late September, the ceiling fan setting can be adjusted. Moved from 3 to 2, as there is the most subtle hint of cooler air mingling with the salted mist that stirs from distant surf. Hawaii’s colder months bring bigger waves to the north shore of the Garden Island. Socks are dug out from the back of dresser drawers. Closed toe shoes become a consideration, but only after wiping down a film of moldy green that has grown on their surface in the moist air, which even a closet cannot buffer against.

On any given day in Autumn, a visitor to this place will most likely only see a land of endless summer, as the sun shines its constant, warming spotlight on the set. But after living through a multitude of this land’s cycled seasons, I see the slightest hints that whisper change. Spy a slant of light that angles lower, more golden hues. Feel grass blades beneath bare soles, just a few degrees cooler than in July.

I long for this shift. Scan the sea for sprays of annual Humpback visitors. Fluff the must from my small stash of sweaters. Start imagining steaming pots of soup.

I ponder windows and doorways. Gateways between. Opened or closed. Locked or unhinged. Passages inviting our own perceptions.