Yesterday I intended to finally sit down and spend the day writing. But instead, I was physically and emotionally pulled to paint.
I know when a muse speaks internally like this it is no use fighting it. I painted this for Aunt Bea, or for me, or for both of us. She was outside the studio in the paddock, soaking up the earth and sun, and I painted quickly, with abandon. I had an internal sensation that I had to get it done 'in time' for her, and even had hesitated to look out the window when I was done because I thought somehow my finishing the piece was tied to her time on Earth.
But she was still hanging in there. I showed her the piece and she looked at me in an expression I have grown to know well - little head with little eyes, "Are you really taking care of me? No one has cared for me for so long, when will you leave me?"
I felt Aunt Bea deserved a Christmas, not a holiday, a Christmas. So I painted her in one. No matter how long she is with us, I will know I gave her that.
