when I start a painting, there is just a big white void staring back at me. velvety paper, thick canvas stretched tight. it needs something big first. the first step usually for me is covering the entire blank, white canvas with color and adding in the details later.
in a new city, a new life, a new chapter,
there are these same elements. the same colors to start out with.
there are the streets I always take, winding through the neighborhoods and past the museum with it's sweeping oaks, across the busy main road and back into the neighborhoods with ivy vines on the sides of houses.
there are the pathways I like to walk when going to the mailbox...down the street, right at the corner, past the apartment complex with the dog in the window.
there are the familiar sounds of a usual day's end at the tea shop. dinner for the people taking over the shift, eaten while leaning against the counter discussing various meat-cutting techniques and the recipe for asian noodles.
sautee the vegetables in the flavor first, are the instructions amidst the gentle clink of plates in the sink.
there are the carillion bells at the church I have been visiting. every sunday morning, clanging. it makes it feel like sunday.
the sunlight filtering through the trees in a particular way starts to feel familiar. the hum of the window AC and the creak of the hardwood floors feel like home.
I wake up and one morning, I don't feel like a visitor anymore.