I am sitting in a two-centuries old adobe home that is my gallery—my gallery with Anna Karin. I’m in the studio where I’ve taken a break from painting. I glance out the window and see a storm spilling over the mountains, across the canyon, where fall is turning the hills to varying shades of gold.
I anticipate the colors that are on the way with real pleasure and step outside because it’s too beautiful not to. The day smells like rain and I know it’s coming. The wildflowers in my yard will conspire with the grasses to do their own version of a celebration dance and the birds will add their song. We all love the rain here in this high desert, even though I know the dogs will track mud into the house like it’s their life’s missions to do so.
I come back to this writing the next morning, in the gallery’s studio again after a long night of quenching rain. The silence within these old mud walls fills my being. The peace that is still held within them, a testament to the lives lived here, is a gift to me. Clouds dance and swirl above the mountain, the village, as the sun breaks through to greet another day. People will come to the gallery. I will paint. I’ll write to you.
And my heart is filled to overflowing with gratitude.