I spent a lot of my life counting the wrong things.
Counting birthdays. Counting money. Counting accomplishments. Counting how many things I crossed off the list. Counting whether I was ahead or behind. Counting if I had somehow become enough yet.
As if life quietly keeps score somewhere, on some invisible ruler I never seemed able to measure up against.
But the funny thing is, when I think about my life, I don't remember ever arriving. I mostly remember thinking I just needed to try one more time, do one more thing, get one more thing right.
The moments I really remember are the moments I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. I remember dinners that somehow turned into dance parties on the table. Getting lost and exploring Ireland off the beaten path. I remember standing with the sun on my face and thinking I wish I could stay in this moment a little longer.
I remember feeling completely alive.
And I remember those little moments that almost slip by unnoticed — the ones where something inside suddenly says, oh... this right here.
The peonies blooming. The hummingbird flirting with my Solomon seal in the back garden. That moment I held my grandson for the first time and felt his little head resting against my cheek.
Those are the things that stay.
Not the totals. Not the measurements. Not the check marks.
Maybe that is what this painting became for me.
All those little marks lined up — trying to organize things, keep track of things, make sense of things.
And then those big orange loops came crashing through like life usually does... messy and unexpected, arriving with its own plans. And to round it all out, that yellow exclamation mark sitting there as if to say: this is it.
Maybe I've been counting the wrong things all my life.
(And yes... maybe even those last seven pounds.)
Maybe the things that matter most were never meant to be counted at all.
