Time passes swiftly. And I started late.
A desert of time to heal from trauma. The ending of a particular career. Entrance to a new calling. The maturation of children. Widowhood.
Then, freshly gained channels that permit expression of my “real” self. Bursting in recent years with previously unknown capacities.
It took me twenty or more years to realize that my prior years were not wasted or lost. It’s part of a grand plan to acquire special wisdom. To spur to grow. To be of greater use for others.
I feel good about being me. A personality in my “late blooming.” Somewhat arriving at fuller identity.
Nowadays, I’m a daily artist. My art is psychotherapy. I practice my art making sense of life experiences. I write about it, driven to understand the human condition.
My art of psychotherapy blends. The fusion of personal and professional dimensions affects me extraordinarily. My values. My lifestyle. My emotional stability.
Thus this work is not merely a way to earn a living. It has become the essence of my life. There are very, very few careers with this fruit of permeability.
It’s a best therapy ever. Possibly its most exciting facet is some heady sense of contribution to humankind. To a purpose greater than my own.
Every person I meet brings a prospect of a bright, beautiful painting. For revival. For redemption.
I do not do my art to get rich. I do it in order to live.
One masterpiece at a time. One life at a time.