
At first I painted—in the bathtub, maybe I was two or younger. My sister had not been born. My mother gave me a tray of finger paint. Delight swelled within me and I was suddenly non-verbal. I was also euphoric. As I splashed the paint on the tiled wall, images appeared, it was so sudden and natural. I couldn’t contain my exuberance and after enough time, thought by mother, she grabbed me under my arms and hoisted me out of the tub, onto my feet. To no avail, I tried to resist and resume my first delve into creativity but it was stopped—until my next bath.
I have never stopped loving paint and the action required to manipulate its potential. Though I often acquiesce to its stand alone beauty, yes, I am happy to submit myself in veneration with no action. Often, my palette provides visual awe, as does a walk among the trees and I realize the gift of vision is my greatest enabler. When I allow my eyes to wander, as a free spirit, the magnificence before me dazzles me into inspiration. I have found over the years, there is no way I can convey my love, awe and admiration for what lies before me in nature. But I have found submission to nature draws me closer and as I calm myself, my inspiration leads me with hope that I can express some aspect of the beauty of being alive.
I don’t understand any of this. It is not rational and I practice going to a place of the unknown and digging for the pleasure of digging and the prospect of what I might find. And even when nothing is revealed, the beauty of the dig is my reward. My gratitude is endless.









