I like to paint.
I used to paint quite a lot as a teenager, and then some in college. After that, life took over, and somewhere along the way, I lost the thread.
But I’m in a contemplative space right now. I’m getting back in touch with things little me once loved. Soft things. Things that make me happy. And painting is one of them.
I take lessons from an elderly gentleman—a very talented painter. He is funny, at times irreverent, and will grab my brush in a heartbeat. But I adore the time I spend with him.
He asked me what I wanted to paint yesterday, and I vaguely answered, “fruit.” He obliged, of course.
But I got creative.
I painted a cut strawberry. I thought it would be interesting. Exciting, even, to paint a strawberry sliced in half.
But the way I painted it…well, let’s just say it was unfortunately reminiscent of female genitalia.
Mr. Ben frowned. “That looks vulgar,” he said.
I tried to fix it.
It got worse.
I agreed with him. I told him I hadn’t wanted to say so, but I’d thought the same thing.
Eventually, we found a stopping place. It was the luncheon hour and time to go home. On my way out the door, Mr. Ben looked at me wryly and said, “Paint over that strawberry.”
Life is like that sometimes. We make mistakes. If conditions are right, we can paint over them and start again. Sometimes, though, we simply have to live with unfortunate fruit.