December 22nd, 2008
From Dec 22, 2008
There are eight pots of paint arranged before me, in a circle. A circle is for protection. Blue is for childhood memories and yellow is for memories of the future. Green is for my career, and red is for my past lives. Gold is for my friendships, and white is for my mind. Black is for my fears, and also for my gods. Pink is for my lovers, and orange is for my true love.
I pick up the paintbrush. Its tip is made of straw, like an old fashioned broom. It has deep dark bristles and a maple handle. When I roll the brush between my palms, I can feel its energy. I dip the tip of my bristles into the pot of gold. Flecks of gold dust jump into the air, swirling and sparkling. Gold flecks smell like waxy vanilla and lavender.
The candles flicker and sound evacuates from my circle.
Shhhhh.
My canvas is blank. With nostalgic memories of those before now, and eagerness for those after now, I slowly and intentionally begin to paint my picture.
I am the artist. What this canvas will look like is up to me in the end. The colors I choose will paint a scene that is exactly as I desire as long as I am intentional in what I want them to look like.
I bite my lip and glance at my past canvases.
To my surprise, they are as white as the sun, glowing with a full spectrum rainbow of colors, glistening in the past.
I thought maybe they’d be a conglomeration of all of the past colors, forming a dark black, maybe a deviant brown. Mix the colors up in a way that is unbecoming of your desires, and you will get a dark, ugly painting.
At least, that’s what they were before I began my new canvas. Dark, ugly patterns, mazes with only dead ends, missing maps, and chaotic lessons. Now the paint has dried, though, and there is no dark, ugly picture. Instead, it is the perfect balance of every color, leading up to pure white, the color of a complete spectrum, a rainbow with the intensity you can only observe if you were to look back on your own past canvases with utter contentment.
I smile because I realize that this perfect complement of colors on past canvases only reiterates my sentiment that there is no such thing as regret– only lessons one has not yet learned. And with a nod, I acknowledge my understanding of the past lessons well learned, and redirect my attention to my new canvas. Beautifully etched in gold, I see companionship, intelligence, understanding, open-mindedness, and pure love. I have painted it beautifully. I didn’t even notice the movement in my hands. Alas, painting a canvas has no condition that requires a steady hand, only a steady heart. A steady mind, and a list of desires. It is that simple. And difficult.