In the repertoire of hobbies, one of my favorites is practiced the least, calming art. I love to paint, but much like my poetry, my emotions need to be frazzled. They need to be in disorder. I don’t know how better to explain the phenomenon, but if I am at peace, I don’t paint. So, I guess you can tell if I’m a little discombobulated when I walk downstairs and open the art studio. And even then I sit in front of my easel and contemplate what would make me settle. In fact, I go so far as to dredge up muck that would cause me to want to settle my mind. Almost like a game face. Except in my playing days, I’d get ramped up to throw ninety-five mile per hour fastballs. Now, I grab a paintbrush and throw water and paint at a piece of paper. As soon as the brush strokes begin, I feel my face lighten; my shoulders drop. My mind focuses on color and wash; on blends and bleeds. I am certainly not a textbook watercolorist. I experiment with brushes, color, even the elevation of the easel so I can watch the colors bleed down the paper and create an effect I may screw up with too many brush strokes or too many fine-tunes. The colors run as they wish, without my interdiction. When all is over, I find my breathing easier and my steps, lighter. The day, or evening, can go on, and I am without doom and gloom. Most often, I paint when depressed, but lately it’s been more from the energy of the unsteady world around me. Vibrations of negativity look much better in paint than caustic acid flowing from the axons and dendrites to neural pathways of depression. This April 16th and 17th, I needed to calm. It’s daughter Ashley’s birthday, and another virtual party awaits. Calming art dispels the evil. Painting allows me to breathe.