A friend was describing my life today saying she thought of it as a painting that kept unfolding and being discovered and uncovered with each layer and each new color brushed onto the canvas. I like her image – a life that started with a wide blank canvas and scenes painted and blended into the next scene seamlessly so that when it’s all done – you could swear it was one of those paint-by-number paintings that seem so effortless to complete – and yet, it’s wonderfully not without effort or mistakes, or risk — and the canvas, like life, is finite, but wide, and there is still so much room for more mysteries to unfold and yield a vastly different picture.
What was Connie’s toast on my birthday on the bridge last year? I hope your mistakes of the future are more interesting than those of the past. Indeed.