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Why do I do it? I wonder as I push the tiny brush around the paper. I have no formal training. The results are not always pleasing either. Holding a paint brush, a graphite pencil or a ballpoint pen to paper does something to me emotionally. I am happy.
Against darkness I push the heavy carved wooden doors opening to sunshine. The outside seems all the more brighter compared to the dark, solemn corners of the church. Parishioners stream out and onto the granite steps squeezing passed me, some making gentle contact. Suddenly the humming that vibrates within turns into song. Church is over. I am singing and I don’t care who hears me. Adults mingled in small groups down the steps and onto the large area leading to the curb. Small children shrieked while they raced playing tag, running in and out of the crowd. If only I could sing. Always. Forever.
In my decades on this earth, there have been periods of my life which have been disappointing and have filled me with anguish and sorrow. Emotions have weighed me down and kept me there.
As I push the paint brush and pigment along the paper, I think of Sundays when I sang. Actively creating keeps me alive. It is the process, not the final product that makes the difference. I don’t sing much anymore, my voice cracks, idle. Mostly, writing has become my song and sometimes, I drag out the sketchbook and find myself deep in the creative process. Humming-a song comes to mind and I elevate to song and find myself happy.
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