There is the rush to protect, but oils cannot be hurried. There-in also lies the advantage. Paint can still be moved. Decisions tweaked. And the painting improves. It turns out this permanence that I think I so desire, can be avoided, leading me to something better. 

The ancient stoics had a saying — The obstacle is the way. 

It has always been elusive. This patience. My heart struggles to capture, so it tells my hand, you give it a try. And joyfully, my hand, never burdened by lessons already learned, picks up the brush, trying to capture a moment of still, of within. And maybe it’s not patience after all, maybe it’s just being. Because patience itself implies perhaps still a waiting. And in all that naivety of hand, my heart admits, that WAS a good try. And it simply rests in the moment. In the light. In the being. A moment not captured, nor improved, just a moment. And I am saved.