misha and the sun

Another stunning October Georgia day.Off to the park to do some running.More like a 12 minute slog.

On the cool-down walk,I saw her.Small,bent over the asphalt,very busy.She was about 8 years old and had mocha skin and a pile of black hair tied in a bow on her head.When I stopped,she looked up.I asked what she had drawn and she said,"the sun."And it was ; a chalk drawing the size of a dinner plate with a bright circle of yellow and rich orange spikes .I told her it made me smile and asked if she was an artist.Without skipping a beat,she said ,"yes"."Awesome", I said and left her.

As I walked away,I knew that I had to tell about her,her smile and her art.On the next pass,I found out that she is Misha and that with the plastic glasses she handed me,I saw that her glorious sun was also magically 3-D.Amazing.I told her that I wasn't an artist but a writer .I asked if I could write about her and her sun.Smile,yes.And so I offer you the artist ,Misha ,who has a sun shining so brightly in her that has to get out.

Now that she has said that she is an artist,she will be one.She will watch things more closely than others.Observe,tuck inside and one day,put on asphalt or paper.Monet sat in his garden for hours before putting one stroke on canvas.Watching,watching the sun move and things change.

This is what artists and writers do.Because they need grist for their craft,they are wide open to the world.They find this grist and in the most unlikely places.It can be a small carved angel in the roots of a tree.Only an artist can hear that voice underneath; tell my story.Or asphalt that yearns for a sun.