How can it be our last day in this paradise? I want to dig my heals in and somehow not return to city life, to being connected.
Turns out living off the grid has its vast advantages. My window is left open every night in our little guest house, and I hear crickets, the stars seem to fill the night sky and their light rains down on us. When I wake, I can hear the birds and the chiming of cow bells. The area so lush I can’t bear to leave. And for this one last day, I don’t have to.
We four artists paint all morning. In the afternoon, we drive the half hour up the mountain to Maji and again we paint all afternoon. We paint until the sun is beginning to set and reluctantly we pack up to head off to supper.
Our drive is never boring; children follow us, and on this night, we even have a very impressive runner keeping up with our truck. (See video at end of blog.)
I do not pretend to know the hardships of this region. I understand giving birth can be very dangerous, and the hard-working people do their best, but medical care is lacking all around. No electricity or running water might be lovely for us for a few nights, bumping in and out but for the people… I am humbled.
My art is not — nor do I ever foresee it to be — about hardship. It is about joy and beauty, and the area has given me more than enough fodder for my work.
In fact, joy and beauty are spilling over, and I’m a little heartbroken to have to wake up and pack my bags.
To my team and the lovely people in Tum and Maji, my most sincere thanks. I shall never forget this time in the magic that I felt!
A future Olympic runner no doubt, this little cutie followed our truck for what seemed like forever giggling and laughing but determined. Today he is my hero!