Some Things Just Happen

The way to love anything
is to realize that it might be lost.
—G.K. Chesterton

When I dropped some art supplies—and they tumbled down the basement stairs— I didn't worry about the points on four graphite pencils, or the water soluble pen or the small metal tin, or my black sketch book. I hoped that the small sable watercolor brush survived the spill without picking up some spilled top soil and threads of grass.

Our basement can't be called finished. A gray coat of paint covers the bare cement floor and the white paint hides the cinder block walls. My art space, or studio, faces a window straight ahead, a hot water heater on the one side, and snow shoes, boots and poles on the other side.

Created shelves and rolling plastic carts hold art supplies, half finished projects, paints, glues and boards—as well as an assortment of pens, pencils, art sticks.

Rollup cases hold brushes—most are synthetic, or blends. But the brush that dropped is sable. Dip it into water or paint and it forms a point, hairs stay in place, and it releases just the right amount of paint. I bought this small brush twenty years ago at an independent art store in Maryland.

I recall the owner telling me that some things you buy for a lifetime of use, "Everyone needs one brush that feels just right— as if you were one soul."

It's the brush I've taken with me when I painted canyons in Utah, a kiva at Chaco, mountains in Maine, lupines, rocks, and ocean waves.

I found the pencils, the case, the sketchbook—all in one spot. I couldn't find the brush and called for additional help—more eyes and flashlights, but to no avail.

Then when I placed my flashlight on a small table, I spotted the brush. Obviously when it hit the ground it popped into the air and landed on the table—a seemingly improbable acrobatic act.

Isn't that a metaphor for soul-mates.