Today I just want to write about one of my paintings and what it means to me. The title of this 16x20" oil on canvas work is called "Promises". I have decided to sell fine art prints of this work and others on Etsy. Appreciate you checking out my shop, into which I am already in the process of adding more art work :)
It was 13 years ago that I started becoming conscious of a greater purpose in my life. As I walked down that road of awakening, grappling the question "Why am I here, what am I supposed to be, and do", there were specific "Promises" whispered into my soul by the Dream Giver which were like stakes, driven into the dry ground of diminished hope - the parched place of my heart.
And as I stayed true to that inner Voice, and continued to dream, think about those promises and act on behalf of those promises - whether it was by quitting my very successful career in SL to spend nearly 9 months in prayer and meditation (right before my family and I got visa in a totally miraculous way, to migrate to Canada), or by investing $2650 (most of my savings) on a 40-day retreat by myself, or by trusting my husband and giving a shot at being a full time artist, or by doing just this, starting up a blog and trying to stick to a consistent writing schedule - I caused those stakes to go deeper into my parched heart.
The amazing things about promises, especially ones that go deep into your heart, is that they soon break the ground. Every farmer knows that unless the soil is broken up and tilled, there will never be a harvest.
As I look back on my 13 year old journey of ground-breaking, hope-tilling, faith-fighting living, I marvel at how simple but potent things like dreams, and promises, especially those whispered to you by the Dream Giver can quietly but devastatingly destroy hopelessness hidden in the recesses of the human heart and experience.
This painting, depicting a pot overflowing with the blooming hopes and dreams in my heart, is a reminder to me about the process of hope-building. It is a reminder that for me, this process has everything to do with discovering who I am, and what I am called to do as an artist.
Perhaps the process will take you on a similar path. Or your path, your calling, maybe totally different from mine. It might be about discovering that you really want to be a mechanic and own your own garage one day. Whatever it is, I don't think we are much different.
Whether you are called to be a mechanic, a business person, or a dentist, you will think about taking some steps along the path you have chosen, because somewhere deep inside of you, you are awakened by something called hope.
And that hope is like a little candle. Once it is lit, your darkness can never be the same again. Once it is lit you know something, which, even if the candle goes out, you can never not know again. Once you've been awakened to your dream, you can either act on it and drive that stake deeper into your parched ground of impossibility, or you can give up even before you've started, and snuff out that little candle. But you can never deny the light that it gave to your heart.
But if you take that candle and protect the flame and stay true to what you've heard, or felt, or believed, if you stay true to the hope that has been deposited in you, by making choices that guard that light in you, then my friend, you will find yourself creating, if not art, but more than that, a masterpiece - your identity - WHO.YOU.ARE.
Knowing who you are is the reward of listening to the whisper of Hope. It is the reward of dreamers. It is the reward of the believers of promises.
When persistence and courage in hoping and believing pays off with fruits of contentment, joy, peace, energy, creativity, generosity, sufficiency, beauty and simplicity, then you will know that it was worth creating your masterpiece.
Those stakes will suddenly be your anchor points to stretch out a great tent under which many can take refuge.
And then, you will know the Dream Giver was not a liar. That He was always there, prompting you, challenging you . . . creating with you.
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