It’s easy to want to rush it. (But I’ve yet to meet a virtue that came without a little patience.) Each step is a pulling of the reins. The making of the palette. Then the panel. Placing the paint. Daring coverage of the large space, not with the speed of a roller, but the time consuming interest of a palette knife. My brain racing to want to get to the real subjects of the painting, all the while my heart telling me to pay attention to the foundation. 

You can see it with children. How they try to draw in the sky after the house has been made. How they add the grass after the family members and the dog. It’s almost impossible to bring in the background after you’ve invited in the subjects. Those lessons, I suppose, are in the gifts of time. 

And harder still, more difficult than canvas or panel, are the lessons of living. Of connection. Relationships. Love. How can we bring anyone in, if we haven’t worked on ourselves? Layed the background. Healed the setting. I, we, are ever having to learn those lessons. We want, with the exuberance of youth, to get to the good stuff. And certainly I don’t want to lose that. So I let it ride, just within the reach of the palette knife. I give it a wink with each stroke. “I see you,” I say, “and won’t it be grand to ride together!” And I delight in the joy of joy just in reach.