This past year in isolation, art became a daily rhythm of soul care for me. Little watercolor vignettes poured from paint and brush. This was something I didn’t know I could do; but there they were, teacups bursting with blossoms, flowers and leaves spilling from water pots, tea cups and mugs. Yet in the act of art, my words became pushed aside; revealing a season for new things where words were not present. The joy of creating art made my heart swell, while the lack of words was something new to me. I have always had words. This art journey was a surprise I was not expecting. This became troubling…