I have a craving. Not a craving for chocolate (that’s always there) or to go on a shopping spree (that’s never there), but a nagging little notion that wet willys itself into my ears and eyes and brain matter.

I want to paint.

Wanting to paint isn’t all that new for me, I’ve come to find a brush in my hand now and again, but this isn’t a desire to sit and just spill some color around until I’m satisfied and/or bored. This is much more complicated, and specific, and frankly, terrifying.

I want to paint the face of God.

Where does one start with a feeling like that? Where do you look for a starting point? Where do you even find the nerve?

One day in meditation, I found myself thinking of starting small, like just trying out the eyes. I can’t even draw an acceptable eyebrow, yet here I am trying to wrap my head around painting God’s eyes.

Who am I kidding? I must be delusional.

And yet, I remember this image that I saw scribbled onto a bathroom wall in chalk this past summer. It struck me so much that I took a picture. I went looking for it tonight, and only when I located it did I remember that there was text underneath. Text, as I recalled, I didn’t understand the meaning of until this moment.

Godseye

All eyes are God’s eyes. All creations are God’s creation. All art is an expression of God, and therefore, all art is true and perfect and good. It doesn’t matter what I paint, as long as I do it. The mistake isn’t in the lack of form or style, the mistake is in believing that creative expression is anything less than divinity made manifest.

I think about the artist that took the time to sketch this upon a simple bathroom wall. I think about the spark of inspiration within that lit up, causing her (I was in the woman’s room after all.) to place such a divine and odd message in a truly humbled environment, possibly even causing her to wonder as to it’s meaning. And I think about how this pebble in a pond rippled out to inspire me, months later, to believe in my own unborn creation enough to overcome doubt and begin an inspired quest.

How can we deny that creativity, in any form, isn’t a direct call from Upstairs?

Guess I’ll be buying some paint.

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