I’m Painting Again

Where it’s the first thing I do in the morning, and the last thing before I go to bed.

I’m painting again.  Like paint on-my-fingertips-jeans-and-the-bottom-of-my-earlobe kind of painting.

Where paint is no longer pigment and binder, but instead voice and recognition.

I’m painting again.  Like the kind of painting that heals wounds you weren’t even aware of.

Where the act of brush against canvas is the savior you’ve been praying for.

Where the smell of paint tangles itself in streams of white sage smoke, marking the trail back home.

Where you realize that you CAN always pick up and begin again.

Where you nestle in softly and burrow in deep.

Where you find yourself.
And only yourself.

And remember this is the nectar of life you’ve been craving.