Dear friend,

Have you ever met someone and known them for a few years, and somehow you forget that they lived a whole life before you knew them?

I remember when I was a kid, realizing my parents had lived an entire life before I was born, one I only knew about from their stories of their childhoods and growing-up years. It was rather shocking to me when I realized this, and I began to listen to their stories more attentively, trying to create in my mind what their lives were like before I was born.

Now, I am almost 23, and while I'm still quite young, I feel like I've lived a lifetime. And 12 years of it, over half my life, hardly anyone has ever seen except my immediate family.

I often don't talk about my life growing up in Zambia Africa as a missionary kid so far away from the grocery store. Why not, you ask? Great question.

It gets hard to talk about a country you lived in, loved, and cried in for years. It's hard because there's a type of grief. A bittersweet memory. And then to have people tell you, "Wow, what a great experience," as though it was a trip to Disney World, and it wasn't your life for all the ups and downs.

I don't feel comfortable talking about any of this. It's been six years back in the U.S.A., and my heart is still adjusting. But I painted from this adjusting heart this week, and you won't understand my painting unless you get a glimpse of my adjusting heart.

(And there were a few people who asked about my life in Africa in the survey I sent out last week-- thank you to everyone who filled out the survey! It was encouraging and great feedback!)

I may share more as times go on, but for now, all I have is this simple poem I wrote a few years ago, and these paintings. I hope you enjoy.

What I See

My heart is a window

that no one can see

a window– globe shaped

I know it's unique to me.

through it I see the world

the flashes of green trees,

a crack of lighting.

What do other people see?

For in each pine bending in the wind,

my window shows me a mango tree,

with perfect brandes for climbing,

higher up green and spotted orange mangos gleam.

In every drop of rain I smell red dirt soaking it into the aching ground.

for every sunrise I see a paint of red and orange,

brilliant against the african plane.

For every person I see faces I used to know,

the women covered in faded fabric of brilliant color and strange design,

the men in worn out trousers and shirts untucked,

some bargaining for tomatoes,

some enjoying a glass bottle of coke,

everyone chatting and laughing and shaking dusty hands.

The children run in tattered clothes, barefeet, and not a care in the world,

pushing handmade plastic toys,

snatching candy when auntys not looking.

That's what I see when I glance through my window.

the window of my soul.

My globe shaped window.

I'm not sure what others see,

but,

what I've seen

will always

be a part

of me.

Thanks for your time and support of my artwork! I am excited to start painting some of the things you suggested in my survey last week- y'all had some awesome ideas!

~Isabel Grace