My mother was an artist

I think this is why I have seen brushes as a distant relative for years. A sort of frenemy, canvases, paints, and brushes were not products I invested in. Instead, I bought books. I trained my mind to read to escape; reading was my outlet. But, no matter how many years I have fought it, in the past four I have discovered the hard truth: I am my mother’s daughter. 

I can’t quite describe to you the rush of peace capsuled in joy that rushes through my arteries when I formulate the perfect color: the color that captures my soul’s state, the color that captures the story soon to be told on my blank canvas. It brings a sweet gasp to my mouth, an air to my lungs; it is a mystery of beauty. And the Seed of Love, watered with pain, finds a voice through my brush’s strokes. One. Two. Three. Stroke. And words that capture the dichotomy of my spirit’s song escape my hand’s movement. 

And I am completely captured by the shadow over me. As I sit through dawn’s peeking hours, on my knees, brow sweating, hands covered in paint, I feel covered in the shadow of His wings. I feel His presence hovering over me, and I feel safe, as I let my hands paint the words of my heart that I once thought so lost. 

in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by…psalm 57:1

In the shadow of his wings, my heart is invited to sing its song. In the shadow of his wings, the tears fall, and the paint splatters; the smile cracks and the laughter rings; and, as I let the shadow hover over me, I realize this: I am free to be. 

And part of being is knowing this: I am my mother’s daughter.