Sometimes I
paint. I love it. But who has time, really? I usually
paint when I'm feeling something so deep that I can't write it down
(yet). I find that the colors, not necessarily what I use
them to shape - are what helps. Last year I was very sad and I started a
winter landscape. It felt heavy and unbearable. So much
so that I couldn't finish it. I hate snow. I hate being
cold. I let it dry and shoved it to the back of the hallway closet
- "I cant." Yesterday I dug it out. I was ready. I
added color. Icy water. Northern lights. A
shooting star. It was finished. The weight of winter
was beginning to lift and the colors in the sky were proof. I don't hate
it anymore. It's a good story that I haven't finished telling with
words.
