The tears were coming. I could feel them. I covered my eyes for a split second with the crook of my elbow and thought about everything I could be doing: writing, reading, e-mailing. Instead, I walked down the hallway, into my office and grabbed my watercolors and art journal. My insides felt on fire and where normally I would push my pain into words, I couldn't yet. They weren't ready. So I went for the darker colors - the ones echoing that of my heart - and took rest in the constant tug-and-jerk motion of my brush.
It's been one of those seasons.
A spill paint against the canvas for lack of words season. A desperately trying to find beauty in disappointment season.
And the truth is, there's beauty. I see it. I feel it. But it's difficult to move what you know to your heart when all she's experienced for the past few months is an onslaught of failed expectations. I can't help but feel as if I'm on the edge of a cliff with all of the violent beauty of the cresting foam and slippery rock. My hands are numb from the cold and my heart explodes from the view and it's all I can do to stand still. One wrong step and I'd careen over the edge.
Eventually, I know the words needing their space and time will find their way here. I'll be able to share about the tears and frustration without the fear of what it would mean. There's a story here, and it needs to be told. But for now, I swallow. I breathe deep. I reach for another brush and find the courage to paint the darkness, hoping it translates somewhere to the beauty of a heart in wait.