She was waiting but she didn’t know for what.
She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold,
And of a greater weight in the region of her heart. – Albert Camus
“Waiting Room” February 6, 2015
It took a long time to find the courage to leave. And then, after leaving, finding the strength to face an uncertain future. When an entire lifetime is unraveled, there is a long period that marks that ending and the beginning of what is to come. That period of time is the waiting room. I have named it “the perpetual waiting room“ because it seems that I have waited forever for things to show up. Or for what was, to come to its ultimate conclusion. Waiting for the divorce and all that it entails, waiting for my property to sell, waiting for the time it takes to begin a new career, waiting for whatever love to enter, waiting to move on to my new life, waiting, waiting, waiting. As of this writing, I am still waiting. The divorce is final, but the property has not sold. So, I’m still here, we are all still here, waiting. Waiting for my heart to heal so that love has the space to enter. It all takes time. And faith. Most of all…blind faith that divine timing is at play and that all is perfectly well.
It was the dead of winter when I painted Waiting Room. So very cold, and dark, and gray and it felt as if spring might never come. I found the only way to cope with the stillness was to surrender. To find reverence for the space I happen to reside in.
It began with deep blues and blacks to fit my mood and then the eye appeared. It affirmed for me that I was precisely where I needed to be. I only needed to remain still, and wait. To become friends with the dark and wait. My crisis of faith.