Blank canvas. Blank page.

Before I start to paint, I see myself mixing colors. Before I write, I hear the words in my head. It begins through my imagination.

I often remind myself of the life that I have yet to meet: the friends and loves and places I haven’t seen. They exist somewhere, waiting to meet me, too.

It’s easy to think that after a certain age or divorce or a sudden change that life is over as we know it — and yes, that’s true. That life is over. That chapter is complete. The friends/family we’ve known for years may float away. (As for the age thing, I just go with whatever people guess. It’s a fun little game and generally they are 5-15 years off!)

But the blank page waits. The canvas rests. We are all artists; what greater expression than a life?

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