I took one look around the classroom and thought, I don’t belong here.
I was a new student at what I thought was a beginners’ art class at the community center. None of the other students looked like beginners. They walked into the room pulling carts loaded with buckets, brushes, easels and other painting equipment. They greeted one another like they’d been painting together for a long time.
It had been decades since my last painting lesson. For most of my 69 years, I’d loved art more than I’d been able to make it. I’d married during college, raised three girls and kept our home running until my husband retired. Not much time left for painting.
A friend suggested I try this class after I confessed that I felt like it was now or never to become a painter. I’d postponed this passion for a long time. Maybe too long.
The teacher strode in. I couldn’t leave now. I’d