The Paint Pallet
~ a short story ~
The Painter was perched on a hill, overlooking the countryside. I say perched because he sat just like a bird watching whatever passed by him with an interest that showed his keen insight. That wasn't the problem - the problem was his pallet. He only had black and he was painting all he saw with black, which gave it a sort of pathos, I guess.
It wasn't what he wanted to be doing, for it made him see the world that way. He saw the colors in the scene before him, but he couldn't convey that in his painting. It was in this state that I watched him from my park bench every day and was fascinated by what he could convey, even if only with black. There was potential for more, and he knew it. I could see the dissatisfaction on his face every time he completed a painting.
He wanted more.
One day I was in for a surprise. Suddenly within his painting emerged colors. It was the first time I saw the Painter smile with contentment. He smiled before, but this was different. His whole bearing was new. I realized it wasn't just about the colors on his paint pallet-but what he could now convey with the colors. The painting was completely different. I almost want to say it was alive.
I decided to ask the Painter what had brought about this change. He told me an Artist passed by him one day and shared with him what was given to himself. That is, the Artist gave the Painter his new pallet, one he had used his entire life. It was in that gift that the Painter could now share his vision with the world. Something that would not have come about without the Artist.
(Originally written 10 - 31 - 21, copyrighted by Therese J. Roberts)