Like the line created from a ball point on the end of a pen we all begin our lives on a thin line heading in similar directions. Our lines twist and turn and if we are lucky, they change into wider more detailed tracks along the canvas of our individual lives. Eventually, we are not on a line at all but more like a painters brush. The individual bristles of our brush are made up from our life experiences, friendships and families. Like our lives, our brushes grow in width and complexity as does our painting. Bristles fall away and new ones appear but the interesting thing is that we can continue to paint with the lost bristles too for they are our lost ones, memories and experiences which add ever more complexity and detail to our painting.
The miracle is that something we cannot understand guides our brush and chooses colors from the palate for us. We may think that we know what our painting will be, but only at the final stroke will we know for sure.
I am celebrating the anniversary of the beginning of my painting and I am well aware that as I am a long way from my original single line on the canvas so is my life more than half way finished. All I can hope for is that my brush continues to accumulate many more quality bristles to enable the colors chosen for me to present an ever more complex and beautiful painting.