Winter at my feet
I was out of my league. Or, at least, I thought I was.
I was invited to go paint outdoors with an outrageously accomplished group of women that I had never actually met. It had been longer than I could pinpoint since I had painted “en plein air”. In fact, I had donated my last awkward easel and was sporting a never used pochade box. I was even insecure about the untouched look of my equipment. It felt like wearing a T-shirt with a big “Imposter” stamped across the chest. I felt clumsy handling my materials outdoors again and overwhelmed by the expansive mountain view.
“I know how to paint”, I had to remind myself.
Stepping back I gave myself a moment. I dropped my gaze from the wide mountain grandeur to my feet. And there was my little patch of meadow grass standing quietly and confidently in the snow. The feet of the grass had melted a space for itself to stand. The narrow stalks lay shadows against the snow and it all felt like something that was so beautiful and so easy to miss.
It gave me a safe place to be that day. I felt solid again, free to stand, free to cast my own image against the Earth.