A few short ages ago I began this painting
. With gusto and effervescent energy, I believed it would develop quickly, that all the pieces would fall into place, that my strokes would be strong and confident till the end, that the vision in my head would remain clear and my direction would hold unwavering.
And then the rains fell. Storming on my head and in my heart. Earlier this year, in the final fighting throws of Winter, I struggled like a drowning woman, lost in my own frustrations. I started painting after painting, till the white walls of my studio were covered in splashes of color but there was no resolution to be found. I spent hours, days, weeks just sitting, beseeching the paintings to speak to me, to tell me what they needed, for that moment when the clouds part and the path is clear. But the fog just rolled in thicker and darker, my skin icy and my faith shaken. I finally had it out with Him. Ranting, raging, questioning why, why if this is my path (which I have never doubted that it is) would He blind me to the trail. Why would these tools, these brushes, that I trust more than my own hands forsake me? I bled all over the studio. I said angry things, honest things, cried myself to sleep on the dirty wooden floor.
When I awoke, the scales fell from my eyes. But stubborn child that I am, I refused to get up until the the dust had settled and the path was clear.
And then I painted.
From the roots of my soul, dipped in the sap of my blood, I painted. And rejoiced. And painted even more. The famine is past. The rains have fallen so that the feast could grow richer. I am remembering my faith. I am believing once again.
From this Detritus springs the most magnificent elixir I have known. I will drink deep, healing my parched throat and filling my limbs with light. I believe once again.