The horses light

Light—what is light? You cannot touch it, nor hold it, nor even see it, yet it is everywhere. In a child's simple world, it pours from the sun. But in the shadows of dreams, when we meditate in darkness and visions bloom, from where does this light arise? What is the secret source that paints our inner landscapes with luminous shapes and forms?

And what of moonlight? Even on nights when the moon is absent, the world is awash in a subtle glow. In the deepest cell, behind closed eyes, light lingers in the dark. The blind, too, are visited by visions, their dreams sculpted by a light that needs no seeing.

I wonder what visions visit the horse at rest, in play, or amid the thundering rush of competition. How does a horse hold a memory—by scent or shadow, by echo or image? What hues swirl in the palette of their thoughts, what silent colours paint their dreams?

I think of the animals—the horses. What kind of light shimmers in their eyes? We inherit ideas about light, handed down in lessons and tethered to our world of things. As children, we learn to name the colours, to tie them to objects, long before we glimpse the true light of waking. Even before our own eyes open, our vision is shaped by the stories of others.

But animals carry no such burdens. They do not weigh colours with meaning or drape them in names. Perhaps a shade—red means danger for a heartbeat, or perhaps not. Horses live in the shimmering present, unmoored from yesterday and untouched by tomorrow. Their memories drift like morning mist—fleeting, gentle, unbound. Each dawn, the world is new: a blank canvas, bright and waiting beneath their hooves.

Birds navigate the world by reading the silent messages of light. Their feathers, especially the Kingfisher’s, shimmer with colours conjured not by dyes, but by structure—light scattered and woven by microscopic miracles, each hue born of waves dancing in harmony. This is not pigment, but the pure architecture of radiance. And perhaps the mysterious light that glows in our dreams is also spun from unseen frequencies—energy whispering through the dark. Yet what is the source of such secret illumination?

In truth, we are the makers of light. It flickers from somewhere deep within, an endless wellspring. In Buddhist thought, light flows from the source of all emptiness, the silent womb of existence. We are told that as sentient beings, we were never truly born and never truly die. Who were we, before birth’s first breath? Such questions stir the Buddha sleeping inside us, rousing awareness. Animals dwell in this quiet space, unburdened by the knowledge of their own being—simply existing, luminous and free.

When awareness dawns in sentient beings, a deep peace follows—the gentle knowing that all is as it should be. In this light, kindness becomes our nature: toward others, yes, but most tenderly, toward ourselves.

This painting is for sale £250 please contact me : khare8@gmail.com