A Resurrection of Sorts

There is something that I love about painting.

There is something about the smooth liquid sliding down into the tray, the brush stuffed full of color.

There is something about running a line of newness over a board speckled with the old.

There is something about working light into crevices of darkness.

There is something that I love about painting.

I look a spectacle when I paint.  I am a messy sort of painter.  I use my clothes as a wiping cloth, for my hands and for my brush alike.  My jeans are smeared with white (the house, the diesel tank, the barn trim), with red (the shed, the gas tank, the truck), with blue (the bedroom), with beige (the hallway), and perhaps with some other colors under the layers that I can no longer see.  I wear two shirts because one is partially see-through and the other is all holes, but together, they work.  The underlayer is a shirt that I got in 6th grade.   The overlayer is a shirt that I got in the 4th grade, then cut holes into for a hobo costume in the 9th.  The smiley faces peer out from behind occasional splashes of paint.  I am quite a sight to see.

There is something that I love about painting.

There is something about the pop of the lid as I pry open the can.

There is something about stirring the thick up to the thin and making them one.

There is something about climbing up a ladder balancing a container full of paint and a brush full of readiness.

There is something that I love about painting.

The first thing that I ever painted was my Grandpa’s shed.  He painted with me (or, more appropriately, I painted with him).  I wore the same ridiculous painting clothes that I wear today.  We covered the walls in barn red and the trim in white.  When I accidentally flicked some red onto the white, he reassured me with what is now one of my favorite quotes.  “Just do your best.  That’s what the farmer said when he let the bull out to pasture with the cows.”

There is something that I love about painting, I’m not sure why.

Perhaps it is the satisfaction that comes with taking something worn and bringing it back to life.  A resurrection of sorts.

Or perhaps it has something to do with an old man wearing suspenders and a mischevious grin.

I put brush to board

and let paint

slide across surface.

Contentment sets in.

The boards

and I

and Grandpa

rejoice.