I am having a morning when I am frustrated with the limitations of art. I want to be able to paint the smell of the choke cherry in bloom, the sound of the bees, the color of the spring garden, the feel of the sun on my back, the taste of the coffee, and the abandonment to joy that is the play of the dogs. I want to put them all on canvas in one place, at one time so that I can relive this small moment of contentment over and over. Sometimes I picture the inside of my skull as a canvas, and it is on this that I paint. Success is only measurable when I have to pull this memory out to ward off unpleasantries, so until I see the completed picture, I remain somewhat frustrated. Nothing another cup of coffee won’t fix, mind you, or an amble through the woodland garden, but the painting is just meant to be as perfect as this moment. So let me set frustration aside and be grateful. This moment is a gift.