Zen in a Can
by Bella Rum
I painted the railing at the front steps this morning. The sun was warm, and a slight breeze blew only enough to make the chimes dance. My mind took flight like it always does when I paint. I didn’t think about anything in particular. Like a sheet hanging on a clothesline, my thoughts kind of smoothed out as I dipped and stroked, but I do remember thinking, this will be the last thing I give up. I love painting so much.
I have very little artistic ability, but while I may not be creating anything original when I’m painting, I always feel like I’m making something beautiful again. It tricks the mind into believing it is creating, and you get that same satisfaction. At least I do. Some of us who cannot create are destined to recreate.
I never understood why Tom shucked whitewashing that picket fence. For sure I would have been one of his suckers.
When I was a kid, I daydreamed about standing on a hillside and painting rolling hills of daffodils. I had an easel and palette and wore the smock and beret. I guess it was my idea of what a real artist would wear.
H stayed inside to work on the taxes. He said that he made a deal with himself, no golf or spreading mulch until the taxes are done. Alright! An idea whose time has come.
Happy Hump Day! You still have half the week to do that thing you’ve been putting off.