Where Explanation Ends

The painting began as a soft place.

A surface that held you gently and asked nothing in return.

But beneath that tenderness was a different pull —

a desire not to soothe, but to awaken,

not to disappear into, but to step fully into being.

So I broke it.

I crushed eggshells and pressed them into the surface.

What once protected now cuts.

What once yielded now resists.

The painting grew a skin.

Rough in places.

Sharp in others.

It no longer asks you to melt into it.

It asks you to meet it.

Then the blue appeared —

deep, quiet, listening.

That space asked for words.

And the words came.

From the Gospel of Mary Magdalene:

all nature, all formation, all creatures exist in and with one another and they will be resolved again into their own roots

The words did not explain the painting.

They settled into it,

like breath into a body.

And then, the lines.

Drawn in chalk.

Fragile.

Unfixed.

Not one, but two.

One almost disappears.

Its dust remains.

I let it stay.

A threshold is rarely a single line.