The Two Headed Snake
Why some experiences need silence before words
On a week-long silent retreat in the Strathbogie Ranges, I had an experience that stayed with me long after I returned home.
One afternoon I went for a walk to revisit a koala I had stumbled upon earlier that day. But this time the environment felt different. The conditions had changed. The walk felt eerie instead of inviting, yet despite my unease, I continued.
Then there was a thud.
About twenty metres behind me was what looked like a two-headed snake convulsing and thumping against the ground. In fact, it was two snakes braided together — a common behaviour amongst males during mating season.
It was such an aggressive sighting. My heart was racing.
I waited until they finished their business and disappeared back into the scrub. Then I closed my eyes and ran for my life down the steep hill I had climbed.
It wasn’t until I returned to the retreat that I realised: fuck, I’m in silence and I can’t share this with anyone.
Normally I would have told someone immediately, but this time I had no choice but to remain with the experience and sit inside the uncomfortable feelings it stirred in me. It took hours for my nervous system to settle.
The insight felt clear: too often we interrupt experiences of joy, fear, awe, or discomfort by sharing them too quickly. In doing so, we cut short the depth of the experience itself. We move away from embodiment and into narration.
We’ve lost the skill of simply being present. In an increasingly busy world, our attention is constantly being pulled elsewhere, and it feels more important than ever to protect it.
So why share this story, and what does it have to do with my art practice?
My work begins with the practice of presence.
When I’m in nature, I try to resist the urge to photograph or record the small moments of wonder I encounter (though not always successfully). Without documentation, these impressions settle more deeply within me. Sensations of light, sound, stillness, shadow, reflection, and movement resurface later as quiet threads running through the work, along with the emotions attached to them.
I paint intuitively. I often begin with a colour I’m drawn to, then allow memory, emotion, and energy to guide the process. The result is a visual language that invites understanding through resonance. Often it’s only after finishing a work that I begin to sense threads of myself or past experiences running through it.
For me, making art is an act of attention. A way of listening, reflecting, and trusting my gut. When I paint, I enter a meditative state; time softens and slows and I feel connected to something much larger than myself.
My practice brings together many of the things I love most: meditation, nature, colour, and self-expression. Through painting, I return to moments of quiet wonder discovered in the bush and try to give them form.
I imagined every word of this Sam and felt more x