otay buckwheat
When the ‘big picture’ is sitting in front of you and the years you’ve lived are painted with bright colors or even drawn in crayon, but the other half of the canvas is blank, all that seems to matter is that exact moment. The white part is too fearsome to look at, and when it is juxtaposed with the carnival of the past, it’s uncertainty is only enhanced. The paintbrush is in your hand, while everyone who has taught you to paint up until now has stepped away. You can’t imagine fillin the rest of the painting all on your own and you’re afraid that you’ll make a mistake which will ruin the entire composition. And so you focus on the brush stroke you are making and pray that it’s right; you realize that this is all you have to do and that it’s not as hard as you once thought . . . but the wall of white still terrifies you. To compensate, you throw yourself into loving the color and style you are using, knowing that tomorrow it won’t be the same.
But there is still one thing which comforts you, something that keeps you from dropping the brush. You remember that while you’re working on your masterpiece, you’re being painted as well. You image is part of a much larger canvas, one so big that you can’t see the entire thing from where you are. And when you look to see who is painting you, you see a face that’s smiling, confident, and loving. So you smile, and say ‘thank you God,’ and you keep painting.
ismene 11/97
otay buckwheat