Painting In the Sun

Let’s start with the obvious.  It’s hot here in North Carolina.

We’re talking “If I can help it, I only leave the house before 9 a.m.” kind of hot.

I am a Colorado girl. I do snowstorms really well.  But fundamentally, summers are supposed to be lovely, with cool nights and no bugs.

So you should be so proud to hear that I ventured out in this kind of weather to go to an outdoor festival.  This festival was, in part, dedicated to the arts. It was great.  And like most festivals, it drew some of the most interesting people I’ve ever seen.  If you want a great place to people watch, find a festival, music or otherwise.  Preferably, it should be in a huge field during the hottest part of the year, in the South.  And sit back and watch human kind in its finest.  I met people dedicated to the arts, and others dedicated to social justice. I met people who lived off the land, those who lived in intense urban environments, those who regularly got arrested for protesting.

And there were lots of dreadlocks and bare feet and percussion instruments.

There, I found a little corner of heaven.

Behind our little camp, on a blanket, surrounded by mosquitos I could hear the music in the background. And I brought my watercolors.

It was a slightly reminiscent of early college, me, in a ankle length hippie skirt with a bandana on my head, painting.

There were tons of musicians and speakers and panels I could have listened to.

But instead, I sat on my blanket with my paints.  The sun was beating down so hard I could hardly see my paper—it felt good, to work in those conditions.

That day at the festival, there was just a little space made.

Literally, a little space to paint on a blanket.  And more than that, a little space to paint for the sheer joy of it, not for a finished piece of art. Space to not think about it too much. To not over work it, or labor for a deeper meaning. Just space to move the brush across the paper and watch lovely things happen.

It was like a meditation actually. Like sitting in silence or walking a Labyrinth. But this time it was my brushes, not my feet, that set the pace.

Here are my small meditations from the festival….

My moment of Zen, in a field, on a hot summer’s day….

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