Most will never even see it. Let alone touch it. So why does it matter? This sanding of the panel. So smooth to the touch as I dare the thin skinned fingers of my right hand across the top, bottom and sides, knowing it is my left that will reach for it. Grab hold while painting. Pulling it close so my right hand can do the brush work. My right hand can talk to my heart and get all those messages on the panel, stroke by stroke. My right-hearted hand that will get the praise on walls, disappearing all that was held, supported, in order to get this result. So will everyone know? No. Anyone? Probably not, but both of my hands know. Even when the painting is finished, I brush the wood and remember. I remember everything. A symbol of all that has held me. Everyone that has supported me. Supports me still.
These are the people, the left hands that hold me. Not for praise or glory. The teachers. The neighbor ladies. The friends. My grandparents. My sweet mother. All who risked holding the jagged wood for me when it wasn’t sanded. They took on the splinters so I wouldn’t have to. And I hope I said thank you then. But there were so many times. I couldn’t have possibly gotten to them all. This is why I sand the wood. This is why it matters. It is for them. They are within every piece that I create. And these heroes, who never asked for recognition, they need to know that I know. I know it every day. So I smooth the wood. The luxury of this gentle touch holds the thank you I meant to say, the thank you I mean to say, daily, and do.
