A Canvas in the Living Room
This morning, I set up my easel by the window, placing a blank canvas where the light falls just right. My brushes, still stiff from disuse, lay beside a palette of reds, greens, and earthy browns. I haven’t painted since school, but today feels different. Today, I’m not chasing perfection—I’m chasing presence.
No Photos, Just Glances
I chose not to take a photo of the apple tree in my front yard. Instead, I glance at it now and then through the glass. It stands there, calm and dignified, its branches heavy with ripe red fruit. A few apples have already fallen, resting quietly on the grass like forgotten jewels. The tree doesn’t ask for attention—it simply is.
Time Beyond Me
As I paint, I begin to feel the weight of time. This tree has likely stood here long before I arrived, and will remain long after I’m gone. I wonder about the people who admired it before me. Who will admire it next? It’s humbling to think that something so simple can connect generations without ever moving an inch.
A Splash of Color and Memory
When I finally finish the painting, I smile. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. I’ve somehow managed to get more paint on my clothes than on the canvas—some things never change. I hang the piece in my living room, so I can always see the tree in its most beautiful moment, even when the seasons shift.
Harvest and Generosity
Then I step outside. The apples are ready to be picked. I gather them gently, leaving a few on the branches for the birds. They deserve their share too. There’s something deeply satisfying about this quiet exchange—me, the tree, and the creatures who live around it. No words, just mutual understanding.