Resurrection and the song of the meadowlark

Something feared dead because so long buried has risen again and, to my surprise, gloriously since this past summer.  I signed up for a watercoloring class, not having painted since high school art class (1958).  It was as if a dam broke, color washing out all over the place, something I was and still am at a loss to explain. It is a gift that keeps on giving in a thrilling way, even when my painting goes errant.  It is akin to the electric thrill of the song of the meadowlark, another gift of God I enjoyed on a daily basis when I lived on the Great Plains. I realize now that my signing up for that class on a whim was something God wanted me to do.  I am grateful for that whim-not-a-whim and the gift God made possible through it.