The Forgotten Chapel
There is a particular joy I feel when I create—when words, images, or forms flow through me and the world falls away. In these moments, I am suspended in a space between ordinary consciousness and something larger, something alive. Tolev calls inspiration “one interrupted biological state,” a fleeting suspension that allows impulses from other realms—or even from past consciousness—to descend into our hands, our minds, our hearts. This is the moment when art becomes more than expression; it becomes revelation.
Art is a living conduit. It carries energy, insight, and resonance that can awaken the observer, transform the creator, and touch the divine. Flowing in creation is not just joy—it is attunement, alignment with higher vibration, and the harmonizing of our inner forces. Active desire, passive reflection, and the neutralizing spark of love converge in every brushstroke, every note, every word. In these acts, we co-create with God, with the unseen, and with the eternal fire waiting within.
And yet, I have noticed a shift. A gallerist once told me that in Varvara, people are more interested in restaurants and pubs than in galleries. That struck a chord of sadness in me. It reflects a wider reality: society has turned away from Art, and in many ways, from the spiritual impulse itself. Energies that once flowed toward contemplation, creativity, and resonance are now redirected toward consumption, material gain, and immediate gratification. The sacred channels that feed inspiration remain, but fewer are attuned to receive them.
Why, then, do some of us still resonate with Art? Why do some hearts still gravitate toward beauty, toward creation, toward the living spark of inspiration? I ask this with humility. I assume it is because we consciously and diligently work on ourselves, remember our Union with God, and nurture our inner resonance. We allow ourselves to feel, to attune, and to open to messages that flow through us. Flow, in this sense, becomes a spiritual practice, a living bridge connecting human and divine energy.
Art, in its deepest sense, is a call back to resonance, a reminder of our higher potential. It is the eternal dialogue between the soul and the cosmos, a channel for messages that might otherwise remain unexpressed. Even when the world seems distracted or indifferent, the act of creation preserves these channels, sustaining beauty, insight, and spiritual vibration.
And this is why the outer world matters too. Veneration cannot live only on the canvas or in the gallery—it must flow into the streets, the rivers, the cities, the very ground we walk upon. When reverence is alive in us, it expresses itself not only in creation, but also in care.
Walking down the streets in Veliko Tarnovo, I was struck not by the old stones or the curves of history, but by the trash rolling carelessly across the road. Trash cans stood everywhere, and yet people tossed their waste where they stood. It pierced me—not only as neglect of the city, but as a sign of something deeper.
When a person is connected to their soul, to God, a natural respect flows through them. They cannot help but treat their surroundings as sacred, because the outer world is a mirror of the inner life. To tend to the street is to tend to the temple of creation. To honor beauty outside is to honor the beauty within.
But when we forget our essence, when we live only in distraction and hunger for what is next, awe slips away. Streets, rivers, forests—everything begins to appear as mere utility, not mystery. Trash on the street is not simply laziness; it is the echo of a deeper disconnection: This world is not sacred. It does not matter.
And yet, it does matter. It all matters. Every stone, every tree, every breath of air. We are entrusted with creation, and our care—or neglect—reflects our remembering or forgetting of this truth.
Perhaps that is why I feel sorrow when I see neglect. Because I also glimpse the hidden beauty of what could be: streets alive with color, cities tended with love, a people walking in harmony with God and soul.
For me, the invitation is clear: to keep remembering, to keep creating beauty, to keep tending—even in small ways. Because each act of care restores a thread of reverence, and each thread strengthens the fabric that binds us back to God.
