My art is in words. The swirling watercolors and acrylics can be founds in letters in print, in between black and white lines, both casually and purposefully painted across a screen. Today I’m ready for more. I long for art to be splashed across the pale walls of this old house, and I know that someday these blank slates will be filled with the creative works of kindred spirits. My soul is dissatisfied with the flickerings of television and computer screens. I want paint, thickly applied to a canvas. I want sculpture I can caress and wrap my fingers around. I want to feel the rhythmic churning of the pottery wheel controlled by my right foot, my hands tight around a sloppy glob of clay. I want to sit quietly, breathing in and out, as I create. As I cut out shapes for a collage, make marker strokes on a bookmark, or artfully wrap a birthday present. I want to inhale aromas of fresh mountain air, salty sea breezes, pastries from a bakery or coffee so strong it stays on my skin all day. I want to encourage artists around me, tell them they are amazing, and wait with anticipation to see what they do next. I want contribute to the world, make my mark on it, be proud of what I create. I want to be meaningful, purposeful, strong and beautiful in my pursuit.

My thoughts, swirling and enriching and outward-focused, are wrapped snugly under a down blanket next to the sleeping form of a sick five year old. Her deep breaths, slowly in and out around the two fingers tucked in her mouth, lull me, comfort me, ground me. Peacefully sleeping, she radiates the glory of a God who delights in making beautiful things like soft foreheads, wispy little girl hair, and tender downy ears that look like seashells. The day is dark and overcast and my mood, too, has been dark and overcast until the excitement of creative work and the sweet peace of a sleeping child spread joy to scare away the shadows.

Today I create with words. I’ll go in search of sculptures and paintings tomorrow.