How easily my confidence could be rattled. Like jacks thrown on the playground. Oh, how I’d scramble to pick up a little “c’mon now…” with each bounce of the ball. Gather up a “who cares what they think,” a “you’re fine.” And as my pockets filled with these words, certainly given to me at one point by my mother, I bounced the ball a little higher. Got off my knees. Stopped scooping jacks. And joined back in the fun.

It’s less frequent, but on occasion I can return to the lowest ground of Washington Elementary, with just a slip of someone’s tongue. Foolish as it seems, even to me. And I find myself asking, “What are you doing? Still trying to gather up your confidence? It was never on the ground. Your heart’s pocket has never been, never will be empty.”

And I realize that I don’t do anything because I’m sure, I do it because I love it. I paint the hands of the woman, veined not with certainty, but with effort. I bake the cake, mixing in lavender honey to replace the last 80 grams of condensed milk that I do not have. I express the feeling in a language that I cannot call my own. And love with a heart dusted from playground sand.

Off my knees. The day begins. I have a painting to finish.