The following was first published on September 16, 2016
Learning to paint watercolor has taught me a few unexpected things about spiritual life. Before heading out on my sabbatical pilgrimage, I had the good fortune of receiving a few private lessons from a local, accomplished artist. My teacher, Jill, was gracious, patient, and had that wonderful ability to meet me where I was to give me the tools that I needed to go further. I remember bringing her one of my first paintings, which was accomplished via some tips I picked up on u-tube. It came out okay but it lacked some of the true essences of watercolor. It was as though I had painted a painting in acrylic or oil.
Years ago, I dabbled a little (very little) in acrylics. Thanks to Jill's instruction, I was to find out that the difference between these mediums is truly ontological. With acrylics (and oils), you build up layers of paint. Highlights (brushstrokes of white that mimic light) are added to the top of things that you paint on the canvas. Watercolors, on the other hand, work from light to dark. If you want to add highlights you need to either remove paint (which is rather easy when you are working in a medium that is water-soluble) or you need to leave white space from the get-go. You can mask an area with masking fluid; this rubber-cement-type material prevents the paint from adhering to the area. Your other option is to leave areas blank. The white of the paper becomes an important participant in the painting.
As I was painting on a daily basis throughout the sabbatical pilgrimage, I found myself applying Jill's wisdom. I began going lighter with my colors earlier on in the painting process. I also started to leave more white space in my work.
In a recent conversation with my spiritual director, I reflected upon the progress I was making with my painting. I shared that my painting had given me a new perspective as I looked at things. Looking out the window, I described seeing the beautiful oak and maple trees in my backyard. I noticed the multiple shades of green and the way that the light was moving through the leaves. Were I to paint the tree, I would need to leave white space in order to allow for the light.
Thinking back on this conversation, I wonder about leaving space in our days for the Light of God to find expression. How might we pay attention to not only the colors that we see but also to the places where color is absent? What are we missing in our incessant efforts to paint, paint, paint? How would our imagination and creativity be served if we simply started to notice and revere the light?
My painting and my spiritual awareness continues to be a work-in-progress. Practice is an important discipline in that it allows for us to apply the wisdom (of teachers, faithful conversation partners, and sacred words) to our living and our response. We grow as the light comes through the leaves of our days. Joy happens when we become aware that the light which gently caresses our moments comes as a gift from our loving God.