I used to love life when I could imagine it as the handiwork of a painter devoted to realism. Accurate, precise, clean. But I have grown to love messy.
After I graduated from high school, my exact lines and perfect proportions faded and I was devastated. Life stopped working like it was supposed to – my Brady bunch family dissolved, I bent beneath the weight of clinical depression, and my liberal college education smeared rigid black and white convictions into a smudged gray sketch rendered by a blunt No. 2.
Since then, color has slowly bled back into my palette. I emerged from university into a relaxed watercolor painting in which I allowed myself to live instead of think. I stepped out of heavy intellectual debates and wrestled as little as possible with grand theories. I could breathe.
The forms are beginning to emerge again and definition grows. But the shapes and faces that materialize aren’t the harsh “realities” of my high school paradigm, unquestioning and unquestioned. They are dynamic, fleshed-out, shifting. They are imperfect and underground and full of humanity.
I want to grasp God’s hand and charge into the sea of an impressionist’s billion spots and LIVE and when I die to resurface, lifted out of the madness, and smile as He reveals His masterpiece.
As long as I’m made of dirt I want to see His brush strokes with my earthly eyes – imperfections pointing to a perfect Painter.
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