Had I picked up the bow instead of the painting brush, as Mr. Iverson suggested in my fifth grade music class, I suppose my life could have been different. One of those “Sliding Door” moments? I’m not sure. Maybe. But it seems, even on the most wayward of paths, I have always found a way, a way to me. 

Out of the hundreds of decisions I make daily — this turn, that step, saying the thing, not saying it, I can stumble for hours. But before that stumble turns into a complete fumbling of sorts, I gather myself in, and go to the place where my heart can rest and my mind can wander. I guess that’s home. And haven’t I always known? From crayon to canvas, without the words to claim it, I have practiced the self care. Scribbling the Burnt Sienna of my heart, inside and outside the lines in the coloring books my mother gladly purchased from the bottom shelf of Olson’s Super Market. (And how graciously she helped me find my path, while still searching for her own.)

We can go over each decision. Play the what if game. But it’s hard to fool the heart — the core of our being, our earth. Perhaps the bow I didn’t pick up was meant for you. And it’s your music I hear as I wander the heart of my Sienna.

I never would have imagined from the floor of the supermarket, that I would be painting in the south of France. But here I am, a long way from, and always home.