This crazy canvas stares blankly at me every time I walk by.
Ever since this day—almost a full year ago--when I loaded up boys in a panic of optimism and flew to Michaels.
Because I had to have it.
Had to paint.
Because I was dreaming of Michelangelo.
And I have painted since. Two lovelies that were gifted to appreciative walls.
But this--this wallflower--remains bare.
Because I wanted it to be special.
Needed it to be special.
And I just haven’t had the time.
But I wonder…am I afraid?
I know that fear; the paralyzing terror of making first stroke, reaching first touch, writing first word, leaping into thin air…
And this leads me to wonder: where else is an empty place waiting? What else does fear leave pale and wanting?
The question carries me to my paintbox.
These lifeless tubes of paint hold power over me that I cannot give word to. I tremble when I take them out of their hiding place. My heart thrills.
And the setting up of the palette becomes this prayer…
rolled up on end
like my tube of toothpaste
give to me
to be squeezed out
give to me
and see me flow--