Yesterday some friends on Facebook, and in life, sent a not so subtle challenge my way – kind of a cross between a dare and a very strong wink wink nudge nudge – to paint a Purple Gallinule. Sandra had captured one on camera a few days before during an Everglades explore and Bethany couldn’t get over how remarkable the colors were. If only her whole house could be decorated in the purples and turquoise colors of the gallant Gallinule she would be so happy. That’s when the implied dare came my way to paint this remarkable bird.
​
Seriously. I do not paint real things. My go to medium is alcohol ink, and my go to genre is abstract – and to be more precise – up close pieces and corners of impressions the natural world leaves on my mind. This Gallinule had a beautiful eye, and a puffin like beak, and together they formed a sweet expression that whispered ‘gee, I sure love this moment, being a Purple Gallinule standing knee deep in such a sloshy space that is both green and wet at the same time.’

Yeah. I don’t do that.

I laughed and responded, “If only.”

For the next few minutes my own subtle dare rolled around in my brain. If only. If only. If only. Why not? Why not try? My mom never thought she could paint portraits of my babies, yet she did so, beautifully! She never thought she could paint a deer in whited silhouette grazing in the woods, but she did. If she could try, then so could I. What might I realize?

After clipping a large sheet of watercolor paper to a canvas board still in the plastic wrap, I gathered my watercolor pencils, pan set, water pens, a cloth for dabbing off excess, a number 4 drawing pencil, and an eraser, it was time to sit and stare; staring at Sandra’s image and then my blank page, back and forth, imagining the first line; staring at the colors and pulling the pencils I’d need and; staring at the expansive blankness, asking it where to begin.

I drew two lines, one horizontal and one vertical, intersecting at the center of the page. This created something solid – a reference point that grounded me on both the photo and the blank space. From there I began sketching in body parts taking care not to press so hard as to leave an indent in the page or gray the paint later.

I realized these were artist’s thoughts – laying out – planning – choosing materials. The many playful experiences with alcohol inks had taught me skills that would transfer to other mediums. This was unexpected. I realized that all the drawing classes I’ve done online, the acrylics tutorials, and the art journal projects had taught me about so many kinds of materials, layout, sketching, erasing and layering in. I realized that all the copying and following along in teaching videos served to strengthen my artist legs so that I could begin walking on my own in directions I’d never planned. I realized I knew what to do.

Once the general sketch was down I lightly erased the first section I planned to paint, getting rid of as much carbon as possible and still see the plan. Laying down the colors was much easier than I thought it would be and switching back and forth between watercolor pencils and pans seemed like the best way to capture the many colors and shades on this spectacular bird.

Every so often I would snap a photo of the work in progress and study it, not sure why this perspective helped me see things in a new way, but grateful for it.

Over the course of the next several hours, followed by a morning of painting, photographing, and more painting, my piece came to that point where an artist suspects one more dab or stroke would lead to unwanted effects – clutter if you will – or even disaster. It was time to stop.

All in all, it was a pleasing result. In fact, the whole process was satisfying and felt a little like redemption – like being rescued from the rut of seeing myself in overly limited ways. Not coincidentally, I’m sure, it illustrated ideas expressed in a poem I'd found, tweaking and considering the day before… just before the implied dare ever took hold.

I awoke that Thursday morning with my mom on my heart, although there hadn’t been much sleep at all. From one thousand miles away, I could feel her, and what I felt, felt like leaving. She had been admitted to the hospital the night before with an infection in her leg. It sounded simple but, in the pit of my stomach, I knew it was not going to be simple at all.

The sun was still below the horizon when I meandered into my studio and turned on the quiet little lamp on the ink stained table. The stains were my favorite part of the table and I held them as evidence that something important was happening.

For some reason, certain poppies fluttered in my head – those same poppies I'd painted last fall when I was dabbling in acrylics. Mom loved them. Why didn’t I give them to her for Christmas? Why was I waiting for her birthday? Sure, she loved the snowman catching snowflakes painting, but is there a rule that says a daughter can’t give her mom two paintings while everyone else gets just one? No. No rule. Just worry. Always worry.

​Exactly half way through May, 2016, my husband, our dog, and I said good-bye to our two adult sons, their friends, and all of our friends, and moved from Northeast PA to almost as far south in Georgia as you can get without being in Florida. We moved into a sweet and beautiful little house, unpacked everything we had a place for, and began to settle in. Just the other side of half way through the very next month, I climbed on a plane to travel all the way past Pennsylvania, up to Western New York. There I stayed with my parents, in my childhood home, for 2 weeks. I’d gone to help and give support to them both after my dad's open heart surgery.
 
I traveled lightly, carrying my purse, one satchel, one suitcase, and a secret. Of all the things I carried, it was the secret that was most important. I had done something very brave, and possibly foolish. I had entered an international art contest and was in the final stages of submitting my artwork when I climbed onto that plane.
 
In the rush of packing and traveling I had almost changed my mind about entering, but the contest stubbornly insisted. Joe convinced me that everything could be submitted on time using my smart phone using the web based application I had already begun, and I finally agreed. That was the plan (and the secret). It was a pretty brazen move for someone who had only been painting for one year, and for that reason I told no one but Joe... and, my Mom, and, after the fact, my sister. Who was I to the art world, anyway? Heaven knows there were millions of artists out there far more talented and accomplished than I. Like I said, the contest was a nag, and this was a familiar feeling of divine urging… I’ve learned that this feeling is always in my best interests and not to be ignored.
 
As my dad rested and my mom worked a crossword puzzle at the kitchen table, I began finalizing the application on my tiny little smartphone. It was just about ready, but the little matter of my artist history statement was proving to be an insurmountable challenge. 

“What history!” I mocked myself. “You don’t know what you’re doing!" I continued. “Did you wake up one day and suddenly you were an artist worthy of  international consideration?”
 
My stomach tightened and my heart raced. What had I gotten myself into? Maybe I should quit before I embarrass myself.
 
The competition, however, insisted.
 
The contest rules popped into my head. Beginners and self-taught artists were invited to apply.
 
Joe’s fast work in getting the images ready to upload to my smartphone, so that I could make the deadline no matter where I was, popped into my head.
 
There was this feeling… that there was something big in this for me.
 
I looked up from the green wingbacked chair where I sat struggling with myself, half way between my sleeping father and my crossword puzzling mom. The walls bore the evidence of an accomplished painter’s work - my mom's. In every direction were paintings including, but not limited to lilacs, pumpkins, tulips, feathers, and a pelican perched on a pier in the Florida Keys. Mom had been an artist for years, had entered many shows, and had won several ribbons for her work. The memory of her carrying a piece from a recent show made me laugh because it wasn’t until she was taking her work down from the display that she noticed a second place ribbon dangling from one of them!  
 
What are the odds that on this day, with this deadline, I would be sitting here in my mother’s house, surrounded by her beautiful work, grappling with my own questions about my validity as an artist?
 
I took a deep breath, walked into the kitchen, and sat down across from Mom, still working her puzzle.
 
I told her what I was trying to do, and explained that I had no history as an artist to speak of. This was all new for me, and I was just finding my way. My only history with art was in creating safe spaces for children in which to create- never for myself, until now.
 
She put down her pencil and crossword puzzle, looked me right in the eye and smiled. “You,” she said, “have been preparing your whole life for this," quietly pressing her index finger, crooked from arthritis, into the table with each syllable.
 
There, in an instant, everything changed. It was as if she’d been waiting for me to figure out that I was an artist. What had seemed impossible now felt easy. I wrote about my work as a teacher, how I began painting only a year before, and described my process. I gave the application one more look, and sent it in. Done.
 
When I arrived home to Joe and our new little house in Georgia, I pulled out a canvas and an old, barely used acrylics set that had been recently unpacked, and began to play with white on white. I had seen how this kind of paint can hold a texture. I don't even know what the process is called, but it was pretty nice (featured here at the top of this piece). It surprised me, since this was my first try, but, like my mom said, I've been preparing my whole life for this.... for today, for this one painting and every painting to follow.
 
Who knows where art will lead me? I have already gleaned more than I expected. All of the rest is up to tomorrow, and all of the Grace that has carried me to this point, and my willingness to accept more when offered.
 
To my delight, I was not selected as a finalist and so was safe from the hazards of being faced with winning a prize I knew I was not ready for. Winning was never my goal. I was counting on the probability that this contest, only in its second year, would have received many, many, wonderful portfolios from well-seasoned, ready artists. It was the contest, persistently insisting. It was that feeling, not to be ignored.
​
Not until just now, while writing this piece, did the real treasure become as clear as the high note in Oh Holy Night, when sung with brazen ease. Submitting my work for the contest, and being brave enough to share it with my mom, opened a window between us, and through it she passed a truth I would have probably never found on my own, or at least not for quite some time. I had been preparing my whole life for this; for this new life as an artist, and now, a month and a half after her passing, for living the rest of my life without her as the strong, creative woman she raised.