Something About These Trees

When I was six years old, I wanted nothing more in life than to climb a tree. I know it seems ridiculous, but I guess I was a simple child, because it’s really all I wanted. The kids in my neighborhood were always climbing trees and hanging and swinging on them. I would sit at the base of the tree, looking up at them, the blue sky and the sun bursting through the leaves behind their heads. I was sure that if I could climb to the top of a tall tree, I would be able to see the whole world from my perfect spot. The thought of that filled me with wonder.

 

 

Even as an adult, I look at trees with the same sort of amazement that I did back then. They tell their own story – it might be happy or sad or scary – but it is always a story about life. They tell a story of standing tall for years, weathering storms, steady and brave; and of embedding their roots deep into their home, providing shelter, and comfort to their community. At least that’s the story they tell me, and that’s why I paint them – to tell their story.

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With a blank canvas in front of me, the world is my oyster. I sit and ponder the possibilities, with music blaring into my eardrums, and then an idea strikes! I grab my small script liner brush and some gray Liquitex paint and start putting down a rough outline of my vision.

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To paint the sky, I use a 3:1 mixture of white and light blue paint with a medium sized flat brush. While the paint is still wet, I blend in streaks of white here and there to give a realistic depth. I paint the sky upside-down so I can reach it better.

After painting the blue sky, I decided to change it to a colorful sunset sky. I find that my vision changes its mind a lot as my painting develops, and I let these new ideas guide and shape my art as I go.

 

 

For the sunset, I start by mixing white and yellow to give me a sort of pastel yellow, that I put around the mountain peak farthest to the right because I imagine the sun is hiding behind that mountain. I add some pure yellow (no white added) in some areas for depth. Then I repeat the process with orange above the yellow and then magenta off to the left.

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Next come the mountains – purple and pink to really accentuate their beauty, with a natural gray undertone, as well as some dark blue in the cool shadowy areas. Keeping in mind that the sunlight is coming from the right, I made the left side of each peak darker and right side really bright as if they are reflecting sunlight.

Having some texture in specific areas on the canvas can really really bring a painting to life, so I add heavy brushstrokes to the trunk of the tree to define the bark, the branches, and the roots.

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After the thick paint dries – which can take some time, I call it my Pinterest time – I can fill in the background without worry because I can see the raised outline of the tree beneath the new layer of paint.

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Once everything is filled in, I add in the leaves and the shadows. Staying consistent with the idea that the sunlight is coming from the right side, the left side of each object is darker, and the shadow is cast to the left of the tree.

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You can see that I, once again, changed my mind on a few things in the final picture. I couldn’t deal with the rows of flowers, so I just made a field of flowers. I also added colored leaves to the tree. Then, finally, after 23 days of work, I sign my name to complete the painting. And it felt so good!

Ecclesiastes 3:11

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It’s Been A Year

I could have died. It was about this time in the evening (8pm), one year ago, that I was rushed by ambulance to the Emergency Room at Tri-City Medical Center. It wasn’t my first time riding in an ambulance, and it definitely wasn’t my first visit to the ER, but this experience was like nothing I had ever been through in my life.

Just four days earlier, on December 30, 2014, I went in for a scheduled operation. My doctor would be shaving bone off of my femurs on both sides to alleviate the pain I was having in my hips from constant sitting. It’s harder than you might think to sit on your butt all day! I was worried about the surgery and about the complications that may result from being anesthetized and intubated. I was afraid that this surgery wouldn’t help me and that it might even make the pain worse.

To make a long story short I pulled through like a champion, getting off the ventilator as soon  as I opened my eyes. The pain from the surgery wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The worst part of that day was when my mom came into the recovery room and asked me how I felt, I replied, “Like a BOSS!” but she heard “Like a BOX!” and she posted that box quote on Facebook… Ugh… Moms, right? But, overall, I marked the day as a success.

On January 3, 2015, I got to go home. Thinking back on it, I don’t remember leaving the hospital. I vaguely remember feeling nauseous and generally awful, but with pain medication I usually don’t feel well, so there was no reason to be concerned. My symptoms got worse upon arriving home. I was vomiting and incoherent, my skin got all yellow (like a Simpson) and even my eyes were yellow.

I just wanted to lay down. My friend, Rob, put a movie on and sat next to me while I rested. I was in and out of consciousness, moaning in pain. The more time that passed, the stranger my noises got, to the point where it was just disturbing. At first, no one knew it (we deal with a lot of medical emergencies, but nothing like this) but it became apparent that I was having a seizure. The 9-1-1 call was immediate.

I don’t remember having a seizure. I don’t remember riding in the ambulance. I don’t remember the look on my mother’s face when the doctor told her that I had overdosed on acetaminophen, that my liver was failing, and that I wouldn’t make it through the night.

I can only see foggy glimpses of that night and the days that followed. I can only remember the good things, which is good. I remember the love. I remember the people I love visiting me. I remember my mom lightly stroking my forehead like she has done to comfort me since I was a baby. I remember my sisters holding my hand, my brother telling me it would be ok. I remember my friend singing “Love is an Open Door” to me. I remember Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins, smiling at me with tears in their eyes, and kissing my forehead. Begging me to hold on, to fight, begging God not to take me yet.

Here I am, a year later, with my liver, the same liver that was almost completely dead last year. Much to the surprise of my team of doctors, my liver began to function again. It took a year for me to really delve into all the feelings I went through during this whole ordeal. For me to realize and completely comprehend and appreciate that I was given a gift and that God wants me here for a reason. I am not certain of what His reason is, but I am trying my best to figure it out. In the meantime, I have a new awareness of the fact that I am completely blessed. I could have died last year, but I didn’t.

 

Lamentations 3:22-24

 

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