I whisper softly as I tie my smock. I light a candle, a winter scent fills the air with cypress and smoke, taking my mind on a quick nature walk. I sip my tea, a white hibiscus with lime and ginger; the spices on my tongue and the heat on my palms relax and ground me. My fingertips run over the textured, blank canvas, feeling the thirsty hills and valleys that will soon grab hold of my paints.

My love affair with color began with my first big box of crayons, the one with 64 “different & brilliant” colors that boldly advertised the built-in sharpener on the back. That box called out to my inner artist, not with red, blue, yellow, but with names like apricot, bittersweet, copper, cornflower, periwinkle, salmon, sea green, maize, midnight blue …. Seriously! There wasn’t a single color I didn’t find something redeeming about (yes, even carnation pink)!

My grip was tight around the rope – as tight as I hoped the rope swing was secured to the branch above. A lot of other hopes ran through my mind as boaters anchored in the water just beyond the drop zone waited for me to muster up the courage to swing on that long rope far over the rocks and drop into the water beyond.