He leaves a bouquet of wild blue flowers at her doorstep. She rushes in delight with his gift, upstairs to her studio. A large, square and dusty white canvas, lay staring at her for many weeks. She’s had visions of painting each morning, when she strolls meditatively through the gardens. She paints many paintings in her minds eye. She has grown fearful to begin painting despite these months of quiet observation. A stubborn antennae guides her for many moons now. She is afraid of its madness as she dusts her canvas. A sensation in the belly reminds her of a ravenous appetite, as aromas from her kitchen seduce her senses. She is fighting to keep lit, a tiny spark inside of her that may catch the strong wind of the sensory world outside. If her inner light dims and retreats into that unfathomable dark abyss of nothingness, many months may pass before this frail, flame of light will appear to her again. She makes bold.

Pulling out her multilayered grey oil-paint box, she picks out a tube of the oxide of chromium. With the warmth of her wooden brush with the bristly hair, she let’s loose. The dance of darting glances between the wild grass in her left hand, and the canvas, gathers momentum. She finds it harder to paint nature than to make portraits of people. The random orderliness in the chaos of the web of leaves, stems, flowers and seeds, are a great challenge for her to simplify. Yet years of inward vigilance, her pregnancy, motherhood, marriage, the scars, and the love-bites from the fire of life’s many lessons, have strengthened her. She is calm inside the deafening noise of the inner resistance. She allows herself to feel. She allows herself, her darkness. She allows herself, her light. The voice of judgment, the burden of applaud & admiration, try hard to suffocate her. She envelops herself in the awareness of a divine intervention, and the soft music of playfulness. She let’s go. She surrenders. Her fingers move at an uncanny speed, her minds chatter begins to recede. She struggles to do the portrait of the wild blue flower.

She breaks down in frustration. She used to be good at portraits. She desperately searches for herself. The wind inside her is getting stronger. She fears that this rising inner gale may extinguish the tiny spark of light within. She halts. Steps back. She rests. She listens. She prays. She senses the warmth of a non-judgmental presence. They whisper to her, “Let go of fleshing the flower in paint. Listen. Look. Allow.

Stepping farther away from the canvas, she takes distance. She gently closes her eyes. When she opens them, she sees someone lying amidst the leaves of her canvas. She picks the blue of the flower. She begins to flesh her out. She reaches the outer limits of a contour of blue. A silhouette of limbs lay languidly upon the whiteness of her canvas. The poetess within whispers her a line:

   A veil of delicate green leaves, rests lightly upon a blue lake of hushed limbs …