I belong to a writing community and wrote a short piece from one of the prompts that was given. I shared it with you all in a newsletter. My Mother, who happens to be a painter herself, read the piece and responded by sending me photos of her paintings she has been working on. I watched her in her studio years upon years as she worked on her ponderings with paper and pen, ink and watercolor, shells and old watch parts, worn wooden boxes and faded photographs. She has pieces of her work in Carnegie Mellon Museum in Pittsburgh. She had shows all over the city from Squirrel Hill to The Strip District. I’ve watched her delve into poetry, assemblage, and watercolor. I was very lucky to grow up in a house that felt like a beautiful museum of art. We had paintings covering ever wall, and in every corner there was some magical thing like a box with a shell and a feather placed just right or a glass case with found objects placed in such a way to make you wonder. She’s been an artist since the day she was born. At 87, she still paints and she sent me a few pictures after reading the piece. I thought I would share with you. I love my mom and am so grateful that I inherited her creative curiosity.

A painter paints a portrait of herself painting. A world inside a world that embodies the world. As if living in a house of mirrors, caught in Indra’s net, she searches for herself only to realize that she will never gaze into her own eyes directly. She ponders the options to forgive and see herself in others eyes, or with eyes closed, free fall through space. What is drawn to her will follow. The painter asks, “Does this life tumble down into a river of fate or climb towards a vision of destiny? Am I the beginning or the end, all or none?