I was sitting in the University of Tennessee’s Circle Park, reading a book on metaphors and pondering what I’d do with my life. College was almost over, real life loomed ahead of me and I had no clue what was next. The future should have been exciting. Instead, it scared the Hell out of me.
Spring meant that the azaleas and the dogwood trees competed for the eye’s attention. Nearby, an older man patiently dabbed his brush onto a canvas. He was meticulously recreating the scene — yet in a way, what he saw was more beautiful. The colors were more vivid. The scene was more sharp.
My book became less interesting as I continued to watch him paint. How could black and white words compete with such glory? I stood up, dusted myself off, walked over to him and sat down on the ground.
And then I just watched.
He was oblivious to his audience — or at least seemed to be. After about thirty minutes, he acknowledged me with “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t sure if he was talking about the scene or his painting. I answered, “Um, yes. I hope you don’t mind if I watch you paint.”
He smiled and said, “If I did, I would have said something by now.”
I smiled back. It wasn’t the first truth he’d tell that day.
“You paint?” he said. I didn’t at the time (although I do now).
“No sir.” My Southern training shined.
“Life’s like this painting, you know,” he continued.
“Do tell,” I sarcastically thought to myself. But I just muttered, “uh huh.”
“We’re given a palette and a blank canvas. Some people have more colors. Some people have more skill at applying the paint. But we all are given the opportunity to create a masterpiece. You can mix the paint together with caring and wisdom and create new colors. Or you can slop it together and make mud. It’s your choice.”
He paused and painted some more.
Then he continued, “But the truly great learn how to see things. And then they make it better. They work hard and continuously add brushstrokes. When the oils permeate the canvas, you’ve left your mark. Your painting is your legacy. It’s the art you leave behind.
I was 23 years old and I had no freaking clue what he was talking about. I wish I had had more wisdom. I wish had been clairvoyant enough to ask him questions. But I wasn’t. I watched him for a few minutes and then walked away.
His wisdom was lost on me — until today.
I walked past the bright flowers of the Governor’s mansion at lunch and thought of the painter. I thought about what’s on my canvas and what kind of painting I’d leave behind. And then I smiled.
Twenty four years ago, a painter left a brushstroke on my canvas. And it was pure genius.