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The sun was setting as we trekked up a hillside on a clear and crisp night, canvases, easels, and paints in tow.
We had time before the full moon was to rise, yet the anticipation in my heart created a sense of urgency that said otherwise.
As I got myself set up on the hill, I went over the scene I'd painted in my mind earlier: The full moon rising over the pristine, still lake, casting a reflection I'd capture with my well-trained brushstrokes.
Then, I looked ahead at what actually lay in front of me.
The lake, yes.
The moon, soon.
And...a large weathervane I hadn't taken into account.
As the moon gradually expanded, pouring its energy into the night, I saw what I couldn't have anticipated before: The weather vane silhouetting the moon.
The angle was unexpected. The reflection of the moon in the lake, obstructed.
The night, though? It was perfect.
A sense of serenity washed over me as I took a breath, erased the painting I'd created in my head, and began the one that would take life on my canvas.
It's this instance, like so many before it, that reminds me: There are moments in life, big and small, that you cannot plan for.
Lessons that will try to teach themselves to you, time and again, before they sink in.
Vulnerability, grief, and darkness that will simmer under the surface until you give them the light.
You can hold onto the resentment that inevitably comes when things don't go as you'd planned (something I've done my fair share of)...
Or you can grab hold of what's in front of you, do the best with what you have in that moment, and accept and embrace the lessons — and the vulnerability — that might come with it.
Under the moon that night, surrounded by nine other professional artists at an invitation-only workshop with my mentor, Lori Putnam in the hills of Tennessee, I felt the culmination of decades of artistic training coming to a beautifully synchronous point.
A point where the learning I've been privileged to do under many mentors over the years, the teaching I've been entrusted to lead with many students, and the practice I've diligently committed to day after day, week after week at my easel, had allowed me to dive into the darkness; the clouds; the eerie shadows and truly enjoy the painting that emerged from what was lying in front of me.
I'm a slow learner. An intentional action taker. Five decades into this beautiful life, I'm still rising.
If you are, too, keep going. We have so much to still experience, create, and share.