When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
In the span of mere seconds the wholeness of the above poem rang about in my mind just yesterday. I was in this tense place where I longed for more space. . .to have several paintings in various stages propped up on easels. . .to have my paintbox enjoying a vast tabletop instead of teetering off the edge of it’s current location. . .to have the ability to shut the door on the mess and protect the drying paint. The dream of converting part of our virtually unusable front porch into a studio just off the living room on the north side of our house with lovely french doors and in-floor heating flashes before my eyes in vivid color.
But this is just not financially possible at this stage in the game. . .
. . . and that’s when I was flooded with gratefulness, not guilt for feeling this tension, but grateful. Because it is within this pressure of wet paint exposed and vulnerable to remote-controlled helicopters and flying stuffed animals that I let go of ownership over the creation. It is not mine to hold so tightly.
I am also reminded of how blessed I am to have a space at all, to have a husband who not only encourages but insists I pursue the calling on my heart and to have my children interact daily with this mysterious thing I feel compelled to do while they are at school.
I am overcome with gratitude.