The Still Life

“The Still Life” oil on canvas, 2023

Do you long for a "still life," or are you satisfied with your status quo? Do you want a break from your fast-paced daily grind, or are you thriving? Maybe you want to retire at some point but aren’t excited about old age or the lack of a perceived purpose. Perhaps you don’t desire to go slow, and certainly you don’t want to be still because of a physical affliction.

I wasn’t seeking a still life. But when the pandemic came, I felt forced to be still. Maybe you were, too. Then, this stillness was magnified by a different kind of "forced rest" due to complications of my husband JD’s four orthopedic surgeries over the pior three years (and a fifth a few months ago to amputate his leg above the knee).

Frustration arrived quickly at our doorstep. Suddenly we were sitting a great deal, wondering what to do with all the time we had before we healed (if we healed).

There was a lot of deep, audible sighing, a wordless expression of the sadness and loss we were both feeling.

The housing of my soul slowed to a snail’s pace, and discouragement followed close behind. I had always thought “age” would happen to others, not us. But then, suddenly, a misstep, a diagnosis, and a surgery gone wrong, and we were faced with and forced into stillness against our will. We needed to both grieve and receive help. Our long list of the places we wanted to go and the things we wanted to accomplish were canceled until further notice. Plans fell apart, like fresh-cut flowers that wilt without water and a vase to hold them.

Amid the sadness, I began this painting. It felt like God was revealing something new to me. The effect was laughter and joy, and now and again, a little dance around my studio to the rhythm of the music. This colorful blue bucket that once cranked out ice cream was given the new purpose of holding freshly cut flowers from the garden that I imagined were taken inside to arrange. The nearby door was open to the breezes outside. This painting felt hopeful.

The two prominent colors in this painting are blue and orange (opposite on the color wheel). I mixed both colors into every stroke, including the whites and browns. These two colors complement and gray each other, giving depth and interest. I see JD and I being on opposite sides of the “emotional color wheel,” complementing each other, as well as both appearing in everything we do.

For me, this blue bucket represents JD. He is strong, bold, confident, resilient, and still wants to be used for something good now that his bucket “can't make ice cream anymore.” He is holding me (those wild, colorful flowers) so I won't fall or be scattered in various directions (which I tend to do) or lose my blossoms of artfulness. He “waters” these flowers of my soul. And though it may appear to our friends and family that I have been the caregiver, over these past years, he has tenderly been the caregiver of my heart.

The open door feels like an invitation to a new way of doing life, of receiving help and

being hospitable. It is open to God Himself who wants to come in, to be a part of the everyday “ups and downs” of life.

As I finished and carried this fresh painting from my studio into our home, I realized my fingers were graced with bits of color from the wet paint along the edges. I laughed because I was glad to be reminded and to carry with me the evidence that, as in this painting, life is “still fresh.”

We may be in the still life, rusting and fading around the edges, but we are not “still” of mind and heart. This man of solid character, rich in integrity, generosity, and kindness, does life well, whether in movement as he learns to walk again with a prosthetic leg or holding still. His new “ disability” does not change the core or the spirit of him. Instead, it makes him a standout.

In the still life together, we have purpose, love, and this notion that we are still wet paint, alive with color. Our life is full, even if it’s still.

Writing this composition teaches me that life continuously shifts in shadows and light. I can actively decide that my story isn't finished. I am simply writing a new chapter. I want each chapter to be full of life, learning, and loving (moving or still) so that, in the end, when the last chapter is written, it will be a great ending to a great book.

“I received an invitation to enter more deeply into the intimacy of relationship with the One who waits just outside the noise and the busyness of life.”

Ruth Haley Barton