Inspiration suffuses my body like a good night's sleep, mind racing, heart gentle and steady but strong, dreams carrying me from one world to another. I take someone's hand to follow through their thoughts and stories, and I wonder if they would take mine in return. I stare in awe at the small things that make their lives real -- the rancid meat, the useless trinket, the sturdy tree with its rotting core -- and I think about what I have painted, what strokes have brought my words to life. Am I a Monet, a Picasso, an O'Keefe? Or am I yet undefined and undiscovered, but someday destined to hang in the halls of a great museum? I could happily echo the beauty of what has come before. But I hope my name will be printed on a plaque somewhere, crediting not just me, but the people in my life who bled into my art.
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