I’m dying to paint again; yearning to be effortless for a few hours.
To capture on canvas the color of the pines as the late day sunlight landed on limbs.
To somehow convey the joy of veering off my normal walk to be surprised by the happy color of citron splashed on a row of young pines.
To express the way my day turned for better because of this happenstance encounter of tree.
It was a beautiful sight.
To spread the old sheet over the dining room table, fill the mason jars with water and line up the tubes of paint and brushes.
To have no preconceived ideas or projects, just to express.
That is all.
I’m prone to striving, to determined effort and attempts.
I write because I haven’t written.
I focus on approval of reader rather than simplicity of sentence.
I catch myself. I should probably trash it; but, I trod on adding to, saying more, thinking it may sound different or prettier, just a maze of overstated circling of whatever it is I meant to say.
See, I’m doing it again.
But, painting is different. I can cover a botched painting and stubbornly continue until what I get is what I know to be true.
The difference is the effort.
To be effortless is to be genuine.
Because effort is akin to striving, pushing, forcing, refining, fighting for a perceived perfect outcome.
Effort is not joy, not from the soul.
Effort is unrest. Unrest no one may ever see, ever take as less than good enough.
But, the heart of the writer, the painter, the poet, it knows.
So we try again, less effort this time.
And we are at peace because we know, our good never comes by force.
We are satisfied in splash of color or semblance of sentence.
Know that He is God.