You can call it a maulstick, the lightweight rod a painter uses to make a bridge, resting and bracing the hand as not to smudge the painting. But when you go to the garden shed, frustrated by the black paint continuously gathered from the portrait’s hair, and you dig through the old pool cues and rake handles that have gathered through the years, and you find a small dowel left over from the peg wall you made for tools, you probably just call it a stick. But what a stick!  To paint without the worry of destruction. Freely. Easily. Joyfully! This stick is not just free, but priceless!

Oil paints are very expensive. Brushes too. So I smile at the value of this stick. So much so, that after using it for about thirty minutes, I just need to tell someone, you know, when the joy is so big, it just has to be shared. So I leave the studio. Walk the stairs. Check the back door. Locked. Walk around the house to the front door. Find my husband in the salon and tell him of my glorious find. For most things, my exuberance is hard to match, but he is always happy to see me happy. Satisfied that the bridge has made its way to another, I take my stick back to the studio to continue. The troubled waters of her hair averted, I continue on her face, joyfully bridged.