I don’t know why I painted it.  I don’t know why the brush I chose felt like the right one that afternoon, light pouring into the condo I was staying in for my creative retreat.

Brush in my hand, a glass of wine so chilled it glistened with beads of condensation.  These are the little moments I have learned to notice.  To treasure.

I pull the green leather journal closer to me and flip the weathered pages until I find a new page, a blank canvas for my thoughts and my brush.

Words & Art and the stories they tell.  This is what it says on the inside cover.  When I paint, it is born from imagination and my memories of places I have seen and places I haven’t. I am learning, slowly, my painting does come from the deep place inside of me, and not simply a memory of a field I have passed.

My painting is soul work.

I begin moving the brush and making small marks that feel almost like patchwork, lining up symmetrically and forming squares on the paper but a picture in my mind.

Little moments of time within time.

Almost like a dream within a dream.

It strikes me.  I am painting from the deep place again, and it strikes me how natural it is becoming for me, with a little time and daily practice.  The words come to me and I paint.  The memories of those feelings wash over me and I paint. 

It is giving me permission to live out those little girl longings in a new way, to express them over and over in rich, meaningful ways.

After the second or third patchwork abstract comes out of my hands, I feel it.  The wind behind it. I am supposed to paint this way, these moments of time within time.

The next morning, I open my computer for my new (and old) ritual of morning writing.  I scroll past each section in the creative writing document I keep.  This document is loose and running and there is no one particular topic within.  It is for dumping thoughts and feelings and it is not for editing or anyone else’s eyes.

I scroll and scroll down to the bottom of the pages, and it catches my eye.

Could I have formed the words first, and the painting second? Did I really write this down weeks ago? There are not many coincidences in my opinion, only teachers and nudges from the universe & God. I cannot help but feel this way based on my experiences.

I blink and scroll up and down around the words and I realize this: I had been intending for this work to come out of my hands for some time now. 

I read them once more.  I look over at the ten paintings hanging on my board to dry, and I know why they mean so much to me.  Those words mean so much to me.  The practice of remembering the moments within the moments and little pieces of time within time. 

A dream within a dream.