Children are Painting

I woke up with a tight back and bleary eyes.
I stretched, felt the age in all my muscles and I am only 32.
I rarely wake up without remnants of the previous days' work.
I heave hunk of baby out of his crib, red hair fuzzed up as if he got spun through the washer and dryer.
Push button on the coffee pot.  What would I do without the coffee pot?
My imagination doesn't work this early.
Not so for Sophie and Beach.
They spot the new plein-air easel in the living room and must use it.
They have very different painting styles and the compliments to each other are flowing freely between them.
It is beautiful to watch.

 Kid Magic.  Give a kid one day off of school, and look what happens.  Spontaneous Art class.
Beach just asked me,
"Would you rather have fun painting and not be that great of an artist, or not have any fun and be a really good artist?"
"I'd rather have fun,"  I said.
"Same," she said and skipped away.

 Pepper paints with no pants on.
She sings to herself and asks me if I need any red.
Then she tells me her rocking horse Lazy Boy needs to grow and I hand her an apple to feed him.
"Try this," I say.
"Okay," and she waddles her little butt down the stairs to convince a wooden horse that he needs to have his breakfast.

 Next year Sophie goes to the Salt Lake Arts Academy.
I am relieved.
Maybe she will find her way to learn.
I see in her concentration the same expression I've felt on my own face.
I tell them its okay to let the paint do what it wants to do.
"Stay here and talk art with us, Mom.  I like it when you do that," Sophie chimes.

It is true that responsibility erodes me into raw joints and ages the skin under my eyes
When I lay down at night, I am an empty vessel.
Now at 10 a.m. I am full again.
Full of reasons to keep on going, and the aches have passed.
I can never thank my Sophie enough.

 I have been taught that I need an adequate substitute for food obsession, body obsession.  I need to place my feet on a different ground.  I need something to be more important, more true.  I cannot sit in the same space and simply say no.  I have to walk away.  I give Lydia a hug, tell her I am sorry for her suffering.  I hug her bony torso, and mean it.  I walk away into the light of my living room where children are painting.