Late afternoon on a Sunday, the end of a weekend, and almost the beginning of a long week at the studio. I just finished my last Sunday session with an unbelievable teen that I have been seeing for a year now. It has been a long day. I finally sit down and have a moment to look around. The studio holds the many stories that are hidden in between the many canvases and sheets of paper on its walls. These are stories of courage, loneliness, insecurities, longings, broken hearts, and loving souls. Stories that are beyond imagination.
I am cleaning the weekly turmoil that is left behind: a splash of pink on the wall, a scratch of a pencil on the table next to a black line, the marks of the chairs on the floor…
I am looking at all of it and know that so much progress has been made this week and that we all work so passionately together to understand, share, and rewrite the sorrow into colors of hope and joy.
I am so deeply grateful for the work that I do and feel lucky that it does not feel like working. I so appreciate being able to be a positive force in other people's lives.
I am packing my bag, taking another look at the works that were created this week, taking a deep breath, and leaving for the cold streets of Brooklyn. Walking home I listen to my breathing, to the soft music of Bach, and see pink stains and black lines everywhere I look.
Another week begins.
