My mind is tired–tired of practice, of lessons, reading Albert Camus. I feel like being alone. Being quiet. Expressing myself.
In the twilight I slip outside. My arms are full with paint tubes, brushes, and parchment paper. As soon as I set them down, the kitties pounce, chewing on my brushes, sniffing the paints. I laugh and shoo the dears away.
The wind tugs at my hair and I look up at the evening sky; all the color’s gone from the horizon and the silvery clouds wait for darkness. I squeeze color onto my pallet and pick my favorite brushes, laying them by my paper.
There’s nothing quite so soothing as brushing color onto blank parchment, listening to the crickets chirp, and watching the first stars emerge to illuminate the growing darkness. I smile.
Time slips away. My sister peaks her head outside to say goodnight. I continue my dabbling, enjoying the way my colors mix together. As the darkness engulfs me, the colors become more indistinguishable, but I continue to stroke it onto the paper.
The gentle breeze brushes against my face and clears my mind. Glancing, toward the trees, I see a silvery glow–the moon is rising, giving the trees a ethereal glimmer.
I’ve finished my last painting and I lean back against the cool wood of the deck, staring up into the darkness.
When I slip back inside, my spirit is stilled, refreshed. I wash the paint from my brushes, enjoying the last glimpse of color on my hands.