The Painter
“Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” –Henry Ward Beecher
I find strength watching the early morning sky.
Bright swaths of orange stream off the sun, spiraling into an open sea of purple and blue.
It feels like a master artist painted the sky with hope, wonder, and color. And I, a mere spectator in the brilliance of this masterpiece, revel in the grandeur of a new day.
I wonder if I am a lone observer or a tiny pixel in the universality of the artist’s work.
Red mountains stand tall, almost proud, reminding the world they were its first citizens. Strong peaks carry the canvas of the new morning as night retreats in solitude.
I am overwhelmed.
I feel small.
Like a drop of paint on the ground.
A warm wind runs across the desert floor as it wraps and teases and shoots through me.
The quail with its red top knot chases after its morning meal. A wandering lizard scampering from rock to rock disappears, and then, like magic, it reappears. White petals fixed to cacti open and greet the magic of the new day.
Each plant, waking animal, red and brown rock, are a collective pastel brushed together by the artist.
Again, I wonder. Who am I in the scheme of nature’s mural?
There is a duality in our existence. Diverging forces straining for purposeful existence but never finding the quiet space to sit still.
We seek significance and compare the composition of our lives to a swirling galaxy and the shooting star brilliance of men building Midas-like wealth.
We crave to be part of the orchestra of colors, but the next moment, we hide in the crowd and just listen.
We want it all and nothing at the same time. And that’s alright.
Then, the artist leaves. The creation is complete.
Reds and purples fade from mountain tops into greys and browns. The horizon gives way to a blanket of slow blue and rippling warmth.
Maybe the artist never meant us to be. Our meaning, the people we thought we were supposed to be, becomes a lost speck fallen off the palette of cosmic dust and pale-blue worlds.
Maybe there is no artist.
Does it matter?
Do we need a maestro of color and sound to give our existence light and meaning to our step?
I don’t know, and it does not matter.
I am here. You are here. Whether we are meant to be here or an accident in a cosmic game of roulette, we are a part of it all.
We create the brilliant hues of our lives.
We are the artists of our day.
Thanks for reading. I hope you become the artist you need to be.
Love to you and yours,
Michael