Skip to main content

Golden Sailboat


Golden Sailboat acyrlic by me

This is my golden, as ever, abundant-in-swirls, sailboat. Perhaps at sunset, perhaps at sunrise.

Being on the sea during either time, if I were very present and not worrying about storms, or being eaten by sharks, or hitting the dock when I docked--would be a most treasured experience.

I have always loved light reflected off the water, no matter what time of day, but the special glows cast by sunrise and sunset--these are Grace to me. I know that I am not the only one who feels this, which is also very nice. There is something most of us can agree on. I love how we can all just stare out at a sinking or rising golden orb, and nobody scoffs at us. They join us. I love the reverence that descends without anyone prodding. I love the time taken out of busyness. I love the quiet.

When I look at this painting, it reminds me that I can close my eyes and picture myself on the bow of a ship, and can summon how it feels to bask in golden light from our sun. It has been so fun playing with color.

Day 26~3 days left! Thanks for reading.
Labels:

Comments

  1. Elizabeth CunninghamFebruary 29, 2016 at 9:02 AM

    There with you! This painting gives me such a feeling of peace.

    ReplyDelete
  2. JuliaMarch 2, 2016 at 10:01 AM

    I can so see this painting in a children's book. Such magic and play here...

    ReplyDelete
  3. JuliaMarch 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM

    PS: I so love the colors in this one...

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…
4 comments
Read more

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…
2 comments
Read more

Beloved

The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…
8 comments
Read more