I have an understanding with the Magpies. A crust of baguette from the kitchen window. Not the shiny object they are accused of coveting, but well lit for certain, under the summer sun of Provence. The exchange is met with chatter, and somehow we both know what feeds our soul.

This constant craving that keeps me returning to the studio — to paint again, for the first time — is me, magpie-ing that feeling. To find the face in the new portrait is to find a bit of myself. To dare going past that first stroke. To dare as well the letting go.  All in search of the crust that feeds me. 

The light in Provence is like no other. Perhaps I was unprepared at first, for this great reveal. (Are we ever prepared to really see things?) On the ledge outside the studio, I can view the colors I don’t even remember painting. Like a lost memory in the heart that says, “Oh, I’m ready to shine.” That is willing and able to admit that I’m not just black and white, but blue. To show it all is to risk it all. But I, like the Magpie, have come to brave the creak of the handle. The clank of the window opening. All for the taste of a slip of lavender honey on no ordinary crust of bread. 

The light is calling. My heart chatters — I will not refuse.