12 x 16 in. Watercolor on Paper. 2016
The tenderness of that feeling. Of being in the wrong. Of being human and thus simple and complex. Of being something who grows slowly and compares oneself to others. Of being made of skin and bone and guts and guts and guts. The heart is just a piece, because remorse is felt in everything. —.
To be the other. The receiver of injury, the holder of a long built trust grown tenderly and seasonally like a berry, so delicious to taste but easy to bruise. To be the giver of forgiveness and welcomer of human mess. The heart is just here: available, confused. —.
We hold each other close. It cannot change without a bend. Together it’s a kind of delicate sharing and holding of parts and bits and information with delicacy, floating just above the known.