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LOST IN ART


LOST IN ART

Time is lost this evening, a full set of graphite pencils surrounding me on the counter as I blend my latest addition to the drawing I’m working on. My sole companion tonight is the sound of the howling wind outside blowing in off the lake. With no traffic or neighbors nearby, the house is still, allowing me to focus and completely lose track of time for the moment. This is what I love about art - it takes me away to a serene, peaceful place where time ceases to exist. My earliest memories of art transporting me to another dimension are from preschool. Pasting macaroni noodles onto colored construction paper, of making Christmas decorations out of sparkly tinsel, getting lost in the colored circles of solid tempera paint and waiting patiently for the water to swirl them to life, art has always been an escape taking me to an emotional state where I feel at home and safe.


Lately, I have had to take a lot of breaks as I draw. A significant ache has developed between my index and middle finger, enough to warrant a visit to my doctor. Since the summer, a small, squishy, pea size lump has also appeared, but the doctor didn’t think it was concerning. It’s here tonight, just beneath the surface of my skin within the web space. It takes a few minutes to locate, but I can roll it around, pain gives away its hiding place within my hand, throbbing as I press on it.


In addition to studying for my fourth year courses at Queen’s University, my time has been occupied building applications for a Master of Architecture and Biomedical Communications program, both of which require specific drawings. Daylilies, a plane for my brother's birthday present, and hands in various positions for my portfolio; all my free time has been spent drawing. The lumps appearance is sporadic so it must be from overuse of my hand, drawing seems to aggravate it. There really is no other explanation.


The thud of heavy footsteps up the wooden front stairs breaks my focus. Continuing along the covered porch, they are followed by a creak and slam of the back door. Her warmth transfers to my back, her long dark curls falling over my shoulder as she gazes at my work, impressed, she marvels with her soft tone “that is amazing honey” the weight of her hand affectionately circles around my upper back. It could be total garbage and she would still say the same thing, that’s what moms do. Mentioning the lump in my hand, her thin fingers, cool from the winter air outside, offer relief to the hot and inflamed area as she examines it for herself. Jokingly, I tell her she is feeling my tumor. Why did I say that? Unappreciative of my choice of words, her crystal blue eyes, rimmed with brown shadow, silently command me not to utter such things. The overhead kitchen lights illuminate her soft features, highlighting the concern that briefly strikes her smooth face. Despite having seen a doctor several times in the past five months about the mystery lump, apparently it is a ganglion cyst, so nothing to fret about, it should resolve itself on it’s own.


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