In the last three weeks I have finished two commissions. What a ride! And as I sit in the after, I go through each step. The building of the panel. The seemingly endless sanding. Gessoing. The background. The images. Coming to life. Stroke after stroke. Pure joy. And without my knowledge or permission, the pieces come to an end. As I knew they would. Still, it’s a surprise. And I have to ship. Build a box strong enough to house all that joy. And then let go. Give it over to the man in the white van. The same man who will push the wrong button, or no button, and I will get the message that “We came by to pick up your package, but you weren’t home, so you’ll have to deliver it.” And I will read it again and again, without my package, certain that both paintings were lost forever. I will spare you the 12 hours of panic…they did get back in the tracking system, and are now across the sea in their new homes. 

I suppose these aren’t lessons to be learned. Not this loving. This living. If we did, learn the lessons, we probably wouldn’t do anything. Love anyone. We can know, but still, we must simply go through it all. As I sit in the after, the portraits of my mother, my grandparents, I would do it all again and again. Love them with every color of my heart, every stroke of my being. 

And it will bring me to the next canvas. And I will begin and end and begin again. And give thanks for it all. From joy to panic to joy again. Click.