Yes, the wind has its way with both of us today, but I don't mind. I'm savoring every step into the spotty sunshine, enjoying the play of shadow and light and discovering as I jog that if I shorten my stride ever so slightly, I can run farther without growing tired.
My mind drifts while Minty wanders, both of us doing what we do best. I'm mulling over the transformation taking place in our shop, a metamorphosis involving my teen son, five colors of paint, and the shape of a massive, patriotically-feathered eagle. Why he chose this for his project, I cannot fathom. It's almost complete now, a masterpiece of brushwork composed entirely from his perch on the on the high rungs of a ladder.
Ethan's skill inspires the same awe as my surroundings. Greening fields reach toward the sun. Clouds dense with moisture tumble over themselves toward the horizon. The first birds of spring imbue the silence with praise. Creativity - God's or others' - makes every space feel like a chapel.
I slow to a walk to soak in these gifts and other, more earthy details appear, each one somehow featuring paint. Angular, amateur graffiti scrawls red across a gray concrete structure. The road's white-painted fog line catches my eye, then disappears when the pavement crumbles into gravel. On the short bridge over Yellow Hawk Creek, a more legible message meets my gaze: "Love Sex Dreams." It's been there for years, apparently homogeneous enough with the local culture that no one's bothered to conceal it.
All these messages, all this art. I think of my daughter, a master with brush pens and calligraphy. My eldest son, a wizard with spray paint and templates. My husband, lovingly painting both halves of a cast-off wine barrel with weather-proofing material to create planters to last us for years. And myself, perusing recipes that call for butter mixed with sugar to be lavishly brushed over steaming muffins. Each of us, in our way, wield our paint. Even Minty takes part, emerging from her ramble coated in a thick paste of mud and splattering paw-prints across the dry road. Bold and bright, subtly-hued, or unconventional, our art takes as many forms as our personalities.
And how will it shine in this season, this quieter, virus-imposed calm? I cannot fathom, but I expect beauty. I consider the faces, the stories of those I love, and I know they will take up their brushes with courage. They will paint joy, beauty, and glory in this world tinged with sorrow. They will use the canvas they've been given, the medium they prefer, and they will paint life. This I know, and this lightens my steps as I follow the crumbling fog line back to my peeling-paint car. Minty and I drive home with the windows down, letting this steely ribbon of road lead us back to the beautiful colors of home.
