Sometimes I like to watch her painting. Her hands are rough and old, but what she creates with her brushes or pencils or pastels is often young, and bright, and beautiful, so to me her old cracked hands are beautiful and full of creativity and life. She always becomes so enveloped in her painting. The expression she wears is one of concentration, and often frustration, as the colors in her minds eye are not just right. She is a perfectionist, not with keeping her house clean, or being on time to every event or meeting or organization that she belongs to. But she is a perfectionist in her artwork.

Looking at my mother I do not envision an artist. She has gray hair, and her father’s eyes, and big rough hands. She is not the picture of a chic new young artist. She is a mother. My mother.

But to watch her paint or draw, her hands transform, and her eyes become excited, and sparkle as she examines every aspect of the piece in front of her.

Sometimes when I sit down to draw something for school, or just for fun I see my mothers hands in my own. I am no artist. I do not have her eye for perfection and color. Sometimes I wish that I had my mother’s patience, to sit and paint, or sit and draw and create something beautiful like she so often does.

And then I realize, I do have that patience. I got that from her.

I do have her patience. I might not have her eyes, or her hands, but her patience I have. But we both have the same trying, staying patience for our passions.


She has her paintbrush. And I have my ponies.

Thank you, your patience means more to me than you could ever imagine…