For the first time in weeks, I started – and finished – a painting. My dudio looked like a garbage dump, covered in debris from the past three weeks: leftover memorial service programs, junk mail, the hat my dad wore to the hospital, hangers and bags that held the kids’ funeral outfits, unsent Etsy orders.
I didn’t have the energy to clean, so I pushed it all aside and sat down with a blank canvas before me. A felt a tear roll down my cheek and watched it splatter on the table. My heart was aching to create, but I didn’t know how to start. Usually, the words come to me first and they inspire the images I paint or collage. No words came.
So, I made a pile of materials. Paint tubes. Brushes. Stamp pads. Pens. Paper. I let intuition guide me – no words to inspire me, no end result in mind. Slowly, an abstract sunset emerged. Then wildflowers, blowing in the wind, practically painted themselves onto my canvas. I felt a stirring in my soul.
I thought about the way my dad lived his life. I thought about the way I want to live mine. I thought about one of my dad’s well-known quotes:
“To dream what is possible and to put oneself into service of that dream is the formula for a life well-lived.”
And suddenly, words grew like wildflowers from my heart onto the painting.
“I want all of my days to be lived in full-color: vibrant, artful and bold. I’m choosing beauty.”
A manifesto. A choice. A return to beauty.
