Last night I started my drawing class. At the Winnipeg Art Gallery, no less – a place for SERIOUS artists. (My last class was through the local community centre, so this is me “kickin’ it up a notch!”) I’m so excited. My teacher is just the right mix of down-to-earth, approachable, relaxed, wise, and seriously talented. I know I’m going to enjoy soaking in her wisdom. We spent last night learning about shading with cross-hatching and smudged charcoal – playing with light.

This is what I wrote in my journal on the bus ride home. “My first drawing class is over. Loved it! Oh yes I did! Teacher, looking over my shoulder, said ‘you have a great sense of light!’ Woohoo! Light! I am elated! Let the light shine on me! And may I recognize the value of the shadows for the way they bring out the light.”

Yup, I was just like Maddie coming home from her art class – silly and imaginative and just plain giddy. I didn’t tell goofy stories like she does (not sure my bus-mates would have appreciated it), but I’m sure I was grinning all the way home.

This morning, in honour of my desire to “bask in pleasure” just like a kid, I want to share a blessing from one of my favourite books:

For the Artist at the Start of Day

May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.

May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,

A Morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,

May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,

To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,

Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved

Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart

In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.

May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light

To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.

~ John O’Donohue ~

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