As Seniors, we find various ways of expressing ourselves. Each of us has a unique way of saying who we are—some whisper it, some paint it, some dance it, and some just let it slip out accidentally during small talk. But art… art is where expression finally takes form. It arrives in all kinds of incarnations: some sublime, some questionable, and some that make you wonder whether the artist was sleep-deprived or simply inspired. Yet the expressions that give us the most joy are the ones that carry beauty, goodness, authenticity, angst, or whatever life insists on handing us.
Expressing the Inner Spirit
Lately, I’ve devoted more time to art, and I can’t begin to explain the exhilaration of creating something that feels true, something that speaks from the soul. It goes beyond taste, beyond sight, beyond touch. It’s as if something inside waits—rather impatiently—to be given words, to be painted, to be played, to finally step out and show its face.
On the Periphery
For years, I lingered on the outskirts of art. I walked through galleries, museums, performances—happy to admire the brilliance of others while clutching my own creativity like a secret passport I never stamped. I dabbled here and there, mostly for my work in education, but never truly allowed myself to plunge in.
Until recently. One day, after decades of circling like a shy satellite, I finally picked up my brushes, spread out the paper I’d been hoarding (as all good artists-in-denial do), and jumped.
The plunge felt like the first swim in a cold Canada lake—lots of hesitation, then a shocking jolt of aliveness. And then… bliss. I became hooked. I forgot to eat. I forgot to be bored. I forgot to be lonely. I even stopped minding the clean-up, which in my personal universe counts as a minor miracle. Somehow, I became more organized; I could pause, take a walk, tidy up for visitors—and then fall right back into the flow.
Art didn’t just become something I did. It became part of who I am. And like a composer giving birth to a long-awaited symphony, I realized: this expression had been gestating for years. But the time doesn’t matter now. What matters is that it finally came to life—my joy, my offering, my small gift to the universe.
An Ode to Expression
The joy found words. It found poetry. Something deep within me stirred awake, and suddenly, the verses came—softly, insistently, like a child tugging on your sleeve at dawn. I now wake up excited to create, like a toddler discovering new toys, except my toys involve paper, ink, and an unreasonable number of brushes.
Here is what rose from within:
Life, thou hast been
In my womb forever,
Waiting to awaken
To the world of the keen.
Life, what beauty
You bring to me
On this particular day
Of my awakening to me.
Gratefully I sing
The canticle to thee—
Of art and beauty
That life does be.
Gone is hesitation,
Onward I go.
Lost for a long time,
Now found—and lo.
Words of complaint,
That time there were none.
Space couldn’t be found,
Obstacles now gone.
To thee I bow,
To your long vigil,
Till the soul awakens
And opens its heart.
The Inner Beauty
Inside each of us is an inner self longing to step out into the light—full, radiant, unfiltered. We catch glimpses of it now and then, usually in the quiet spaces between errands or in the five minutes before sleep claims us. For years, I was busy with life, with goals, with what I thought were the shiny trappings of success. I gave myself to them completely. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small voice kept whispering: There is something more.
Finally, I listened. Finally, I expressed it.
The joy it brings surpasses all my past achievements—not because it’s grand or public, but because it is mine. Personal. Essential. Whole.
Maybe this is what truly matters. Maybe it takes decades to discover. I can’t say I understand it fully, but I know the feeling of it now—this quiet wholeness, this sense of being at one with myself.
And that, too, is a kind of masterpiece.
