Sitting before a canvas and trusting that the paint and the marks and the colors will become cohesive. I can honestly tell you that I still feel the fear of thinking the muse won't show up. The creative juice is gone. I had a few years of writing where it flowed in waves and waves. I am used to how writing works. I had a ton to say and I trusted the process of ebb and flow.
This genre is different. I am battling with the need to let my voice come forth. In all its whimsy. And mystery. The light and the dark. Working in harmony. Sharing the story and bringing it out of me. But I have willing to sit. feel. wait. And trust that I have a voice in this area to share and have impact in the conversation of art and paint.
This lady finds herself fluttering. Floundering. She watches as the birds mimic the urgings of her heart. The birds show up to support her inner yearnings. She didn't know what would happen when she finally came into agreement with her heart's sadness and search for hope.
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