Self Portrait

During a relaxing walk along the beach at sunset, I observed an artist capturing the quickly dying sunset on his canvas. He stared briefly at the huge red sun sitting half in a pool of shimmering water. The waves sizzle onto the beach sounding like the hot sun boiling the sea it sets in. The evening mist rises like steam and I wait for the last light of day as the sea cools the hot sun till tomorrow’s sunrise. With fluid motion the artist strokes his canvas in a vain attempt to capture the beauty of nature. I wonder why someone would attempt to create a picture so less beautiful than the real. As I admired both the artist’s work and God’s I was reminded how a painting is so much like life. I was certainly born with a blank canvas. The finished portrait requires many years of work, a little luck, and a lot of hard work. Many things influence the final self-portrait, too many to remember, but when I sign my self-portrait I am judged. Each event in my life is another brush stroke on my canvas.

When mistakes are made, the artist paints over them. But they are still there below the surface and he knows it. That reminds me of my mistakes and my attempt to correct them. Much like experience lets me cover life’s mistakes, but never lets me forget. I call that learning from experience, something I do too little I’m afraid. But each mistake builds my character and makes me into who I am either good or bad. Not that I cannot blame myself, but sometimes it seems nothing goes right in spite of hard work and good intentions. Are these the tests of character I am told about? Should not life be fair and reward those who work for good and punish those who work for evil? Another of life’s mysteries I think.

The unexpected is my biggest challenge. Like the sudden gust of wind on the artist’s easel which causes the painting to fall and rip, the unexpected catches me off guard and unprepared. The artist picks up his painting, cleans the sand from the still wet paint, and repairs the canvas as best he can. Disappointment is apparent on his face, but he is only shaken not beaten. The scars may still show and the artist remembers them even if they do not. Though he now knows his work is less perfect, the artist does the best he can with what he has left. I too look at my scars, both on my body and on my soul. Sometimes I think “Why me Lord?” Then I try to remember the words of Don Shula “Success is not forever. Failure is not fatal.”

The perfect brush stroke is the artist’s dream. The feeling cannot be described though a natural high comes to mind. Done once, admired ever after, perfection is rare and fleeting. Everything I do is with the hope of a perfect outcome. Like the artist trying to capture the beauty of a sunset, I try for perfection with full knowledge it cannot be achieved. I settle for little pieces and try for more. Why do I continue to seek perfection knowing it is unattainable? Perhaps because those little pieces of perfection I know to exist have to be sought and worked for before I can find them. After all, I do have to search for perfection before I can find a piece of it.

When an artist finishes his work he adds his signature. That signature identifies his work and gives him credit for it. Each artist’s work is like a chapter in my life. But unlike individual paintings, which may have no common thread except the artist’s signature, each chapter in my life is woven to the next with many threads. Although my words and deeds sign my life like the artist signs each painting, the artist does not get to sign his total creation. For me, the name on my tombstone is my final signature. My hope is I leave my self-portrait unfinished. Left for my children and grandchildren to continue adding their brush strokes to mine making the sum far more beautiful than the individual.