In the corner of the room stands the tall black easel; a gift from days long ago. For many months it has been silent; neglected; left to itself in the darkness. The darkness would not be for long.
Gentle hands use soft cloth to tenderly wipe away the dust gathered by forgotteness. Small drawers are restocked with purpose..their destiny fulfilled with the this and thats of creative supply. Once again, the easel is brought into the light and given a voice.
Paper in place; slender fingers poise. Delicate touches here and there slowly, intently give way to shape and form. Silence is broken by a soft scritch-scratch, a swish, a long sweep of the charcoal pencil. Shadow and shade, light and luster come together in wonder and beauty..from her eyes it flows through her soul down her arms and from her finger tips making it's impression on page before her.
Occasionally I pass by to see her deep in thought; pencil poised on her lips..she bites her tongue when she's concentrating hard on something. A touch here, a shade there...little marks to deepen or darken one place or another. I think it's perfect, but she always finds something in need of a little extra attention. My chuckle makes her shake her head....such an eye she must have; funny girl.
Contented now the easel stands; once again filled with purpose and place. Canvas and paint scattered at it's feet evidence the high calling it has. She steps away for a time, but it will be a short time, for her hands have found a voice again and her heart sings with creative beauty as is evidenced by the pieces found on the easel.