I'm going to tell you a secret.
Not many people outside of my family know this, but I have had pretty awful arthritis in my hands since I was fourteen. In my hands.
Painting for me is breathing. It's a heartbeat. I have no idea who on earth I will be when I can't do it any more.
This year, it has gotten worse. When it rains my joints get so bad that I can't grip. I can't pick up a glass of water or hold a fork.
It's moved up from my hands and is spreading.
There is a little clock in the back of my mind. It's counting down to a little ball of pink terror.
I know I can't do this forever. I know this. These poor little hands won't hold out.
I am so grateful for every minute that I have to paint.
Why do I tell you this?
I decide it was time to write this aloud, because even though every minute of my passion hurts me, I couldn't possibly be happier when I paint. I am complete.
A lot of us have complications. Restrictions. People who tell us that we have unrealistic career choices.
There is no dream you shouldn't follow.
Ignore the odds.
Even if you have only a few fleeting moments before it's gone
you will always be proud that you did it anyway.
We need to unite. Let's tell our stories.