There is a moment in the painting when I see it. It’s no longer just colors. Shapes. It becomes a person, in this case, she. And then I feel it. The responsibility. A joyful one, but still. I’m involved. And I become, well, part of the becoming. And it is beautiful.
Whether we’d like to admit it or not, we shape each other. From one encounter to lifetimes.
When you place a stroke on the canvas, you can’t take it back. Just as with the things we say and do. Oh, we tried in school, at Washington Elementary. “No take backs,” we’d say. We didn’t know how right we were. But I’ve learned not to abandon the canvas. I keep going. Some turn out glorious. Some are worked. Saved. Painted over even. But something always comes of it — even if it’s just another chance to make something beautiful.
I hope I can see it with the people around me. And those around them. And beyond. I suppose we’re all just trying to become. Moment by moment. If we could see that, wouldn’t it be, couldn’t it be… isn’t it, just beautiful.
