The Painting: How The Light Gets In
The Prompt: PAIN
Imagine this: It begins as a whisper: a pain in your right leg. Initially, it’s no big deal. It comes and goes, more of an annoyance than a burden. You don't worry too much. You stretch in the morning, take long walks at night. But as days unfold, the pain intensifies, escalating from a whisper to a shout, and then into a howl.
Doctors diagnose you with a herniated disk. They tell you a piece of the cushion between your spine's vertebrae has pushed out, compressing the nerves that radiate throughout your body.
They prescribe meds, which barely touch the agony. The only thing that takes the edge off is oxycontin. Cautiously, you take it, wary of the risk, but grateful for the reprieve. Because, well, the pain?
It’s searing, unstoppable, uncertain pain. The kind of pain you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. Pain that builds until the only thing you can focus on is the pain. Pain that shouldn't exist, but somehow does - relentlessly. Pain that ramps up like wildfire and takes your breath away. Pain that makes you wonder why you're living.
It doesn’t get better.
It gets worse.
And, just like that, your life becomes unrecognizable.
Once the robust head of your household, you now find yourself ensnared by your body’s betrayal. The vibrant life you once led—joyously twirling your children, providing for your family, always at the ready with a solution to any problem—has been replaced by: a bean bag chair, which you affectionately dub “the pouf.”
Day in and day out, your routine is the same: sprawled helplessly on the pouf, watching life unfurl around you while you remain immobilized, a spectator in your own story. The most terrifying part: you don’t know if it will ever end.
You feel useless, a shadow of who you were just weeks prior.
From your family, you expect: resentment, judgment, alienation.
But that’s not what happens. At all.
Rather, you begin to witness more than simply your own pain: Your home blooms with newfound resilience and closeness. With fierce grace, your partner becomes the backbone of your family, somehow balancing work and home to preserve a semblance of normalcy for your children. And, sensing what you need—kindness, companionship, camaraderie—your children illuminate your darkest moments with constant love and tender companionship.
And slowly, amidst your unrelenting pain, a realization begins to dawn on you: This love is not a new development. It has always been here. Just, you couldn’t see it for what it was, couldn’t feel it. You didn’t appreciate how truly unconditional it was:
You are not loved simply for what you do. You are loved for who you are.
The smaller, insecure part of you wants to deny this. But the proof is in front of you.
You are loved for who you are.
As days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, profound gratitude emerges that outmatches and outlasts your physical discomfort. The suffering that cracked you open paradoxically opened your heart, allowing light to seep into all your broken places. And, miraculously, it has amplified your ability to love - and be loved - transforming your shadows into contours of understanding.
Little by little, the pain begins to subside. But, you?
You are changed forever. And, despite never wishing this experience on another, you give silent thanks to your suffering, and all its resplendent illumination.
Hi y’all. :)
For the record, this story did not happen to me! Rather, this experience was offered as a prompt by a collector in the Scales community—you may know him as simply "Homey"— and was the inspiration for the very first painting of the 11th Drop of the Scales Collection, "How The Light Gets In."
Having just gone through tremendous upheaval in my own life, I recognized a path to healing the moment I encountered Homey’s story. While I was thankfully spared the abject horror of a herniated disk, the trauma fairy did recently pay me a visit, mischievously pushing all my buttons in quick succession and leaving me a weepy, disembodied mess for more time than I care to admit.
What struck me most in Homey’s narrative is what's implied rather than explicitly stated: the way we define our own lovability shapes our capacity to accept the love that exists around us. Observing how he chose to let his suffering teach him rather than limit him inspires me.
Stepping into Homey’s shoes for this painting allowed me to step out of my own for a moment, to regain some objectivity, and siphon his wisdom by way of osmosis. Suddenly, I was able to see all the ways I chose to feel alone in my struggles, despite the abundance of love that actually carried me through it. And as I created the painting, I began not only to see this love, but feel it. By the time the painting was complete, I was back at center.
This is the power of storytelling, the power of art.
Art heals. Full stop.
Huge thanks to Homey for taking this journey with me and collaborating both on the painting and the writing. It’s been incredible.
An Invitation:
For the remaining 150+ paintings I must complete for this collection, most (if not all) will be created from "prompts"—stories and inspirations graciously shared by those brave enough to open their hearts. (That’s you, I hope.)
Dozens of people have submitted their prompts so far, and in the coming days/weeks/months, I’ll be sharing them and the paintings they inspire.
This process is how I travel even deeper into the heart of creation: through love.
If you would like to offer a prompt, or have a story to share, please shoot me a message. It does not cost anything, and you are not obligated to purchase anything.
How To Support:
To learn more about the Scales collection, and to see the 6500+ pieces of art created so far, you can check out the entire collection at https://scalesfineart.com and purchase prints.
stunning insights in this one. at some point, when you said, “art heals. hard stop.” i felt the depth of that, how it was much more than just four words. we have to create. we have to. love you, friend.