I remember a few years ago my husband made a comment that changed my life. He observed that everyone wanted more time, but not the time they had. I asked him to clarify. He said “everyone wants more time right?” I was with him so far…then he added “but people are constantly given little pieces of time that they don’t want.” That seemed crazy to me. He clarified…” For example people are irritated if they have to wait on an elevator, or in traffic.”
He told me that he had started to recognize these little gifts of time in his own life. It is great to have such a wise husband.
Many days I do my painting while I am waiting…at ballet class, or voice lessons, or guitar lessons, or cross country practice, or at the finish line of an ultra marathon race. I keep a small bag packed, with little pieces of paper, reference photos, and a small box of pastels…and 20 minutes of waiting becomes a delightful little gift.
Here I am, painting while waiting for my husband and sons to finish a race, fortunately for me, they prefer to run trails, and it is often somewhere lovely to do a plein air study.
The deep orange settles my soul, I love the contrast with the water.
“I thought of the wilderness we had left behind us, open to sea and sky, joyous in its plenitude and simplicity, perfect yet vulnerable, unaware of what is coming, defended by nothing, guarded by no one.”
― Edward Abbey, Beyond the Wall: Essays from the Outside
I love orange. The fruit, and the color. I have bowls of oranges big and small sitting around my house the time of year. I love they way they taste, and they smell of an orange that has just been peeled. The color delights me, and I almost always find orange in what I am painting whether it is there or not.
This little delight was in a bag of grapefruit that my dad brought to me from someone in his office. One lone orange, and it had a leaf! Delightful. Now that it is painted, I shall eat it.
The Harvest Moon
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A touch of cold in the Autumn night
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
4×6 study in pastel on abergine sanded paper