Day 46 of 100

Well. Hmmmm. Something different happened with today's painting. It's quite possible that it won't be apparent to anyone but me. And in describing it I may come off sounding loony.

Well. That won't be anything new.

I mostly use words to find my way through this life. Thought words. Spoken words. Written words. Clear words. Clumsy words. You get my drift. My tools of exploration and explanation have been words.

Until today.

Earlier today, I used spoken words, quite haltingly at times, to attempt to explain something to someone else. The ideas were important to me. The person was important to me. I had no idea whether or not "communication" had been achieved. Plans were made to get together again, a few hours later. We did, but due to unforeseen complications,

the time together did not go at all as planned.

Normally I would turn to my journal and use written words to process the "events." Tonight however, something in me just said "no." I started today's painting instead, with absolutely no conscious intent other than to have no intent. As far as I knew, I just picked up the nearest brush and let instinct guide me to the paint and the waiting page. Over the next hour or so, on breaks from watching something on my laptop, I laid color on the page. Still, no conscious decisions as to shapes or colors or placements. But somewhere deep inside my thoughts, I could tell I was "talking." Only no words or sounds were used.

At some point, I "knew" to paint the different circles, and then stop when I had 5.

Toward the end, I "knew" to leave three spaces white.

Then the final step: I picked up a rigger and dipped it in carbon black and "wrote." When I stopped, there on the page were 7 "messages." They made me goosebumpy. I have no idea what they "mean." And yes, I realize this may all sound really woo-woooooo . . . but as I stared at the "messages," I got this incredibly primal assurance that I DO know, at the deepest level, that my life is good and is on track and that I am right where I am meant to be. On the surface of my daily life, I don't have a clue. I wonder every day what in the heck I'm doing and why. But these "messages" tell me that underneath, I DO understand. I DO know. I don't know WHAT it is that I know, but now I know that I know.

I'm pretty dumbfounded at the moment. I never imagined I could find a language for expression that worked as well as words did. But these 46 days of painting have led me into another whole world. It is very very unfamiliar. But I think I'm too happy to be scared.

Fresh Start

Had to post a follow-up to last night's musings. Rough rest of the night, sort of. Rough in that I couldn't fall asleep until past 2am. Sort of in that I prayed throughout the night and listened to hymns, all as oh-so-gently guided by the God Whose very name is Love. Climbed out of bed around 10am with a heart sweetly refreshed and comforted. Looked at the results of the watercolor splashings done just before bedtime and was surprised all over again.

Surprised because last night, I'd been happy I responded to the urge to do SOMETHING artistic to combat the blues, but disappointed that the watercolor hadn't turned out as I'd hoped. Surprised because evidently I had forgotten how much watercolor changes as it dries. REALLY surprised that I forgot this element, since that has always been part of that medium's appeal for me--that the artist can do her part in laying on the colors and choosing what paper or other surface and how much water to use and when, but that the colors and water and surface make the final decision as they dry and integrate with each other. This morning I saw lovely shadings and subtle variations where, last night, only puddles had rested. I was also delighted to find the picture I'd painted AFTER splashing on the journal pages--which I'd painted because it felt so good I just couldn't stop.

So, as tears dried throughout the night, so did the watercolors. This morning I could scratch out my thoughts on top this loveliness and be reminded all over again that I AM an artist. God made me that way. God has equipped me with all I need to express myself, in words and colors, in thoughts and actions. Heartdeep thanks to my Creator, and to my daughter for sharing, a few days earlier, her efforts to turn to the play with and production of art when she needs to shake herself loose from inertia.

late at night

I just composed a fairly lengthy entry . . . and for the first time since I started blogging in January, it would not post and was lost. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, I had questioned from the beginning whether or not I should publish that post. I guess that decision was taken out of my hands.

I'm not gonna try to re-create the entry. Instead, I'll trust that the sadness in it was NOT meant to be given any more air time.

I'll do what I had decided to do at the end of the post, and follow the example of my daughter and rouse myself from whatever I'm currently mired in via involvement in something artistic: before heading to bed, I'm gonna slosh some swipes of watercolor over the next open pages in my journal. Then, tomorrow morning, when I get ready to write, beautiful color will underlay whatever I say.

Goodnight.