It is an early morning. I lift the brush and the first stroke is just a promise. The studio smells of paint and coffee; a thin morning light slips through the blinds and paints a pale ribbon across the easel. I think of a place I once passed through on a long trip - humid air, vines like ropes, the distant percussion of rain - and decide that this bird will be more than a memory. It will be an argument for courage.
Each color is chosen like a decision: a fearless citron for the chest where hope sits, a deep blue for the parts that know sorrow but refuse to smother joy, a slash of magenta for the beak where words are formed. With every layer I remind myself that mistakes can become texture, that pale mixes can birth unexpected brilliance. I work quickly, letting intuition steer the brush rather than fear of a ruined canvas.
As the toucan takes shape on the branch, I imagine it watching a horizon I cannot yet see. The golden ringlets are not decoration but light gathered from small victories: conversations I had when silence felt safer; mornings I kept painting even when the world said pause. Those circles shimmer like coins of lived experience; they’re not trophies, only reminders that persistence accumulates into glow.
When the final highlights catch, I step back and remember why it began: not to be perfect, but to be seen. In that moment it becomes clear to me that the painting is an instruction to me and you: choose color over concealment, accept the stains along the way, and hold your place on the branch with the quiet courage of one who keeps coming back.
Perch boldly — and the world will find a way to notice your light.
