Everyone has their morning ritual. After the customary shower and making of coffee, I usually pause at my kitchen window and see what the world has to show me through that glass lamina to the outer world.
The rain started in the wee-hours of the morning, and the first thing I noticed was the beauty of the raindrops falling down the pane of glass, emulating the way tears run down one’s face. But this morning was different from any other rainy day; I had noticed there were multiple blackbirds in the road picking up worms from the damp pavement.
A thought popped into my mind: when it rains in your life, there are those who have it easier than you. Your bad weather isn’t an issue that concerns others. Hell, it may even be to their benefit that you’re stuck in rain. Why? They feed off it.
This past weekend was a thunderstorm for me.
I’ve always felt immensely blessed that my life’s coping mechanism is art. When I am at my lowest, deepest sorrow, I turn to art. Sure, I’m probably guilty of spewing words when I’m upset, but my weapon of choice is always the paintbrush. There’s an insensible release that we visual artists own that perhaps others do not have. It’s our outlet. It keeps us sane. My husband has even referred to it as my “Prozac paintbrush.”
Spoken words disappear as soon as you speak them. Written words, specifically on the internet, will be lost within time. Paintings are visual emotions that can last forever. The work I produced this weekend came from the rain. The rain nurtured my soil—my soul—and from it grew beauty.
So, go eat your worms you little birds. I’m too busy playing in the rain.