Letting the Light In

Letting the Light In

Since moving, I’ve been painting, sketching, and playing with art supplies almost daily. It’s been a lifeline, a way of finding my footing again. Some days it’s colorful chaos, other days something deeper slips through.

The other day an abstract piece started like many others—messy, moody, in that in-between stage where it’s almost something… but not quite. The center of the painting was darker, murky, unsettled. It clearly needed a little something, but whatever that was, it wasn’t coming to me.

So, like any respectable artist/procrastinator, I switched gears and picked up another project.

I’ve collected a handful of vintage books over the years, hoarded (ahem, curated) with the intention of turning them into art journals. I grabbed one and began gluing some of the pages together. That’s when it happened.

A fragile, yellowed note slipped out.

The paper was lined with handwriting and was falling apart where it had been creased. I took one of the sections and started tearing it along along the lines of handwriting, thinking maybe I’d collage them into my painting. I wasn’t paying attention to what was written but then a few words caught my eye.

One scrap read:
“two years, he”

Another:
“tutor.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Mark.
My Mark.

It’s been just over two years since he passed. And in that moment, I felt like he had sent me a message—simple, quiet, and completely unexpected.

The painting no longer needed “a little something.” It needed this. These bits of paper, these words, these echoes. I collaged the fragments into the darker center of the painting. And slowly, with each layer, it began to shift. The light came in. It began to feel… finished. Whole.

I named the piece “Letting the Light In.”
Because that’s exactly what it felt like—an opening, a gentle permission, a flicker of brightness coming through the grief.

Mark left me a note. And I’m starting to believe it said:
It’s okay to keep going.