Today I feel the wind blowing strong, it whips around the corner of my house, threatening the trees and newly bloomed flowers. It hisses and whines with the creaks of my old home, like a whisper, it surrounds me. I feel chills up my spine, I feel watched;
Spring is here, the flowers are almost in bloom, the leaves peeking from their respective branches. It feels great to be outdoors, the sun in my face, the wind whipping my hair as I cart my paint supplies out to the picnic table by my flagstone patio. Seems like a great idea, romantic even. My three year old daughter wants to paint with me and the wind is knocking everything off the table. I try to persevere and keep up the facade of painting outside like a true nature loving, artistic soul. I start the painting but the wind is blowing my hair straight across my eyes making visibility difficult. I take a quick run into the house for a hair elastic and come back to find my daughter “painting” on my canvas, the one I had already started. I start over, placing a tiny canvas board in front of her so she can paint also. I spend about half an hour on the painting, trying to re-capture what I had originally started. Then the wind picks up and tips the water container, dirty paint water and all across the whole painting and into my lap. My daughter giggles. I don’t. After mopping that up I’m still determined to make this work. After all, it’s a beautiful day and I want to be outside. I move the water container to a safer spot and start over….again. This time everything falls into place and the afternoon flies by. My daughter jumps from painting on her little canvas to playing with her toys on the vast lawn. I complete my painting; it looks exactly as I wanted it to. I decide to leave it to dry on the picnic table knowing it will dry fast in the sun. My daughter and I started carting the painting supplies back into the house, stopping for a drink and some cookies. When we go back out we are blasted by a fierce wind, it takes our breath away, almost knocking my daughter off her feet. Hand in hand we walk around the side of the house, back to the flagstone patio and there is the painting, face down in the grass about 10 feet from the picnic table. Afraid to pick it up myself I ask my three year old; she happily bounces over and picks it up. “Look Mommy at all the pretty colours.” The mixed, smeared and smudged painting, grass and dirt stuck to it, the face of the figure unrecognizable; leave it to a three year old to find beauty in the wreckage!