sunday morning. the air outside is soft and beautiful. the air inside is cool and delicious to breathe. my kitchen table is bare. only my journal. my pen. my hands. only paper. and ink. and sinew. and bone.
a dog delivers one solitary bark in the distance. i perk my ears for more. but there is only the dead silence, cut by the sound of the pendulum swinging compulsively inside the clock’s nave.
as i write, i observe my fingers. delicate. thin. but filled with purpose.
my husband comes into the kitchen to make his morning coffee, slicing through my reverie. he bends down to kiss me, sees that i’m writing in my journal, whispers, ‘oh,’ and glides out of the kitchen like a ghost.
my eyes fill with tears. are they tears of connection? or tears of loss? one tear falls on my right index finger, rolls over my flesh, and onto the page. the violet ink blurs. i try to flick the tear off the paper, but the ink smears like watercolors.
suddenly. my journal is a canvas.
i set down my pen. walk to my office. reach for my watercolors. and walk back toward the beatitude that is creative expression.
i am not an artist
but some days
i love to paint
open
stark
empty page
awaiting the touch
of paintbrush
dipped
in violet
in cobalt
in crimson
in black
smeared
one stroke
and another
one dab
and another
expression
saturated
not with beauty
not with artistry
but
with impulse
and whim
and authenticity
