Impressionism

When I was 17 years old I was blessed to be able to go to England and France. While in Paris I got to go to Musée d'Orsay. I loved it more than any other museum. It was full of impressionistic art pieces.

 

It was there I saw my myself.  My whole life. Not in any particular painting but in the form. The thick brush strokes, the colors that blended and danced together. They paint not what they see but how it makes them feel. This is how I see the world. With my all my senses, with my emotions. Not one standard line but a canvas full of movement and personal meaning. Thick, colorful, and untamed.

But then I saw her. She was sitting there in her painting.  It was large and mounted on some casual wall. She was not from Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, or Renoir.  She was not famous or glorified. She was a mirror.
It was me.

To me, I saw poignant observation.

Seeing.
Listening.
Becoming. 

She is thinking but most of all waiting. That moment she finds herself still in silence- wondering. Sensing that there is an answer but not knowing what it is. But willing to wait.

She could go anywhere.
But she’s willing to wait.

Maybe she sees something. Maybe it’s him. Or it. Or perhaps and more significantly she sees nothing.
But still.

She looks. 

I connected with her in a way I never have before with anyone or any other masterpiece. It was spiritual. It was truth. To me, it was not just paint- it was scripture.

Somehow someone painted my mind. And it’s there it will always be. Sitting on the pale shore line.
Waiting. Wondering. Watching.

And ready.