I walk through the living room and see her.
I stop. I watch.
I watch the light fall through the bay window onto her long, brown hair. I watch her hand dip the brush into the paint…and I then watch those same hands…those artistic hands…brush the paint across the canvas. She is an artist. Her paintings amaze me…especially since the extent of my drawing ability would be a stick figure. But, art is not limited to the canvas. What I see in front of me is art.
It moves me.
I grab my own “paint brush”. My brush is larger…and it clicks. But, it is what I paint with. It is how I somehow try to communicate what my eyes see.
Not only what I see, but what I feel.
I paint my daughter on the canvas of my soul. This beautiful young woman…this gifted artist. My firstborn.
And another form of art is represented in every stroke of her brush.
Her love of dance…her passion. And I pray God gives her the strength to pursue this love, as she once again puts on her dance shoes after being on the sidelines for too long with back problems.
And so we paint together…
And we dream together…
And we create art in the kitchen.