As I pulled the silence around me like a favorite blanket, I laugh to myself thinking how unnerved I felt during my first stay at The Jesuit Center. Turning on my electric toothbrush that November morning, I was convinced even the kitchen staff two floors below were deafened by its hum. By the next morning I realized the only person disturbed by the toothbrush was me.
"I am sorta like those jelly-filled french candies. I am hard on the outside, but if you push too hard my shell will break and expose the soft and runny inside. If you aren't careful I might ooze onto you," I explained when it came to my turn to introduce myself by using a texture.
The overwhelming anxiety of the day before had lessened but, I still had trouble focusing. While sitting in front of a piece of blank Yupo paper I struggled to remember to the task our facilitator had suggested to our retreat group. What are we supposed to create? I felt cracks appearing in the hard shell and the gooey interior welling up. Sensing my frustration, Aletheia gently suggested, "Don't over think it. Just go with your intuition. Let your heart and the Spirit guide you."
Wait, this isn't art class. I'm not getting a grade, I reminded myself. Giving myself permission to reach for whatever I felt drawn to pick up, be it ink color or implements of creation I grabbed orange, yellow, blue, and violet inks. I used a toothbrush, an atomizer, a stippling brush, a spritz of alcohol, and a bar of ivory soap. What emerged was darkness and light, layers and textures, while anxiety dropped away and inner focus returned.
Having almost no background or training in art outside of required public school classes, my approach to painting is one of play, prayer, and/or self discovery. Rarely do I have a "picture" in my mind, but rather I like to clear my mind of the chatter and simply focus on only what is in front of me. More and more I try to go with impulse and instinct rather than force an image to appear. (In fact, I generally don't like the paintings in which I try to manipulate the end product, too much.) This painting held several surprises for me. Usually I know when a painting is done. I don't know until I get there, but when I do, it is just done. About that same time, or as the painting is drying, the meaning or title crystallizes in my mind.
This painting was different. No meaning became clear. It was done, but it wasn't finished. I wasn't even sure of the orientation of the painting. I studied it from several angles. And it held a mystery. In the lower left quadrant, it seemed that three Greek lower case letters appeared. Lambda. Alpha. Iota. I Googled them from my phone (not a good thing to do while on retreat.) The results didn't really shed any light for me. I felt myself becoming frustrated. Let it be. Let it be, said that still small voice.
Yesterday morning, coffee in hand, I pulled out the painting and looked at it again, meditating on its images. Then I stepped into uncharted territory. Light. Yellow. Pulling out my art suitcase...
...I did something I've never done before. I added to the painting that was done-but-not-finished. Yellow. A little at first and then with a larger almost dry brush I added more. While it was drying I opened my laptop. Lambda. Alpha. Iota. The words were still there, even through the yellow. In astronomy lower case Lambda means wave or wavelength. Alpha = first or beginning. Iota = a little bit. Ah, now I get it. The message is: The first wave may be small.
The first wave of sunlight that breaks through the darkness. The beginnings of change, good or bad, may be small. When the hard shell breaks the inside may ooze just a bit at first.
At my husband's suggestion I worked on it a bit more last evening, reinforcing the TEXTURE of the wording in lemon yellow. NOW it is finished.
The first wave may be small. Whatever your wave is. Don't miss it. Anticipate it.
As I read I thought about Stewards unfinished painting that we decided was finished or is it? And I thought of Steward saying he needed more yellow in his life.
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