In my summers of pink shoulders and cheeks, barefoot in beds of grass that lined Van Dyke Road, even though my legs spun beneath me like a cartoon character, each day was lived as slow as a single page. I didn’t worry about ending anything, or anything ending, I simply began and began.

I have to work at it now, what youth offered so freely — to measure a day without time, but blades of grass. My sketchbook serves as the reminder. There is only the page that I’m working on. Going back would only mess up the work that I’ve done. Looking ahead would bring the anxiety of work left to do. So I stay on the page, and simply enjoy.

I recorded the painting of the last two birds. I had to speed them up ten times to create the videos. To watch them now is to see the summers of my youth. Almost a blur of activity, but the knowledge of time well and slowly spent. And what a relief to know that I can simply return to the page. The slow and thoughtful picking of colors, as if they were green blades between hopeful toes.

A single blank page awaits. And I am not afraid.