admiring the freshly painted church.
“You know what, son? God works in mysterious ways. This church really needed a fresh coat of paint,” Dan said. I simply nodded in response.
“You are quite skilled with your hands, y’know. I am not a fan of graffiti, especially on the walls of my church, but you did an exquisite drawing,” he continued. “We all have hidden treasures, tiny pockets of precious secrets, harnessed inside the chambers of the heart. They lay dormant waiting to be cultivated, so they can sprout to life.”
“Thank you,” I had the decency to utter, though I was clueless to what he was saying. The wacko was going out of his way to be kind.
“Well, I shall remember to get you some paint supplies. Right now, if you swear to secrecy or Maritza will kill us, we can go for an ice cream sundae before dinner. I don’t know about you, but I feel an urge to celebrate.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I fought the urge to cringe.
Today, I clearly see what I was unable to understand then. Life is a maze and we are seekers. When Dan helped me to paint the church, it was the first act of kindness done toward me. His gesture was, in a sense, what I had been searching for. It taught me that somehow, we find what we are looking for even when we do not know what it is. If we search, we are bound to find.
After a quick stop at an ice cream parlor, Dan took me to an arts and crafts store, where he bought me brushes, paints, and canvases. Until this day, I remember the prickling of anticipation on my fingers during the ride home.
During dinner, I shoveled in broccoli and mashed potatoes, hastily finishing the meal in order to go to the basement and start painting. A frenzy of need possessed me and, on that same night, I painted the three blank canvases Dan had bought me.
As it turned out, Dan was right. I have a selective memory that allows me to memorize a scene or a face in a really weird way, along with an innate and unique instinct for translating my memory into an illustration. Some people call it talent and others call it a gift. I say it was a life jacket thrown to me in the midst of a long, dark night adrift.
With a burst of creativity humming through me, I became obsessed with drawing and painting. Most of my artwork was—and remains—depressive and morbid, but always with a crack of hope contained within. I think that is what makes it relatable to people. We are creatures wired to hope. Life can be mean as a bitch. Oftentimes, we only strive because we all seek and hope, even when the search is to find our very own unknown.
Did I say foster homes don’t come with painting kits and don’t allow you to express yourself through art? Well, erase that, mine did.
I park my Jeep, and walk across the empty parking lot of the church building. Once inside, I deeply inhale the familiar scent of lemongrass. As I stride to Dan’s office, I enjoy the peaceful silence of the sanctuary. I knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dan says. He lifts his green eyes from the heap of papers on his desk, and smiles. In his fifties, he is slightly bald but incredibly in shape.
“Hey Dan,” an involuntary grin spreads across my face. Dan invokes this reaction in people. He is soft spoken and kind. He reminds me of a Willow tree slowly swaying under a breeze, but with strong roots, and a sturdy trunk.
“Sit down, son.” He points to a chair. “I will be just a minute.”
“Sure.” Sitting across from him, my foot taps the brown-carpeted floor. I examine the pictures frames over his desk, one of him and Maritza, and the other of Mel and me.
“You look upset,” Dan raises a brow as he shuffles some papers.
“Had a long day, that’s all.” God, sometimes I forget how perceptive Dan is.
“Is there any problem with your upcoming exhibition?”
“No, I need to finish a few canvas, but the gallery is taking care of all the details for the event.”
“You tattooed the
“You know what, son? God works in mysterious ways. This church really needed a fresh coat of paint,” Dan said. I simply nodded in response.
“You are quite skilled with your hands, y’know. I am not a fan of graffiti, especially on the walls of my church, but you did an exquisite drawing,” he continued. “We all have hidden treasures, tiny pockets of precious secrets, harnessed inside the chambers of the heart. They lay dormant waiting to be cultivated, so they can sprout to life.”
“Thank you,” I had the decency to utter, though I was clueless to what he was saying. The wacko was going out of his way to be kind.
“Well, I shall remember to get you some paint supplies. Right now, if you swear to secrecy or Maritza will kill us, we can go for an ice cream sundae before dinner. I don’t know about you, but I feel an urge to celebrate.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I fought the urge to cringe.
Today, I clearly see what I was unable to understand then. Life is a maze and we are seekers. When Dan helped me to paint the church, it was the first act of kindness done toward me. His gesture was, in a sense, what I had been searching for. It taught me that somehow, we find what we are looking for even when we do not know what it is. If we search, we are bound to find.
After a quick stop at an ice cream parlor, Dan took me to an arts and crafts store, where he bought me brushes, paints, and canvases. Until this day, I remember the prickling of anticipation on my fingers during the ride home.
During dinner, I shoveled in broccoli and mashed potatoes, hastily finishing the meal in order to go to the basement and start painting. A frenzy of need possessed me and, on that same night, I painted the three blank canvases Dan had bought me.
As it turned out, Dan was right. I have a selective memory that allows me to memorize a scene or a face in a really weird way, along with an innate and unique instinct for translating my memory into an illustration. Some people call it talent and others call it a gift. I say it was a life jacket thrown to me in the midst of a long, dark night adrift.
With a burst of creativity humming through me, I became obsessed with drawing and painting. Most of my artwork was—and remains—depressive and morbid, but always with a crack of hope contained within. I think that is what makes it relatable to people. We are creatures wired to hope. Life can be mean as a bitch. Oftentimes, we only strive because we all seek and hope, even when the search is to find our very own unknown.
Did I say foster homes don’t come with painting kits and don’t allow you to express yourself through art? Well, erase that, mine did.
I park my Jeep, and walk across the empty parking lot of the church building. Once inside, I deeply inhale the familiar scent of lemongrass. As I stride to Dan’s office, I enjoy the peaceful silence of the sanctuary. I knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dan says. He lifts his green eyes from the heap of papers on his desk, and smiles. In his fifties, he is slightly bald but incredibly in shape.
“Hey Dan,” an involuntary grin spreads across my face. Dan invokes this reaction in people. He is soft spoken and kind. He reminds me of a Willow tree slowly swaying under a breeze, but with strong roots, and a sturdy trunk.
“Sit down, son.” He points to a chair. “I will be just a minute.”
“Sure.” Sitting across from him, my foot taps the brown-carpeted floor. I examine the pictures frames over his desk, one of him and Maritza, and the other of Mel and me.
“You look upset,” Dan raises a brow as he shuffles some papers.
“Had a long day, that’s all.” God, sometimes I forget how perceptive Dan is.
“Is there any problem with your upcoming exhibition?”
“No, I need to finish a few canvas, but the gallery is taking care of all the details for the event.”
“You tattooed the
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