There are many reasons that I write each day. A writer writes.
There are many reasons that I paint each day. A painter paints.
But I must admit, I had this idea, that maybe, just maybe, if I wrote the words down, they would form a string, a line, a ladder, and connect to my mother. I thought if I finished the painting, finished the book, they would be the lifeboats to carry her. A believer has to believe.
And for 586 days it has been true. But maybe the real truth is that it has saved me. I suppose that’s love. It must be love. And perhaps the only real reason to do anything.
Years ago, I wrote about my mother –
“You do the impossible every day. You warm people with your own brilliant light, and make them believe it is they who really shine.”
I write. I paint. I believe. I love. All because of her brilliant light. I will do it today, and for the rest of my life. And I will be saved.