Everlasting, egg tempera

Summer thunderstorms hurl lightning bolts at the sea like javelins from an ancient warrior. Thunder crackles through gunmetal-gray air, rattling the windows.

When the skies clear, sometime before twilight, a slender crescent moon hangs low in the southern sky. A bird settles in for the evening under its ageless presence. I am there with her in her solitude, and the blueness pierces my soul.

He made the moon also, to serve in its season,
to mark the times and to be an everlasting sign.
—Sirach 43:6

The thunder subsides, leaving behind a profound stillness. In the quiet aftermath of the storm, the menacing gravity of melancholy looms—lingering for a moment. Then the atmosphere shifts from violence to grace, like a meadow of flowers emerging in spring light. In brokenness, we are led into Grace.

In one such moment of clearing light, I layer egg tempera onto panel, building up the soft, luminous silence of this painting—Everlasting.

Egg tempera requires patience. It cannot be rushed. Mixing pure, dry pigments with egg yolk and water, then cross-hatching thousands of tiny brushstrokes, I watch a quiet depth emerge. It is slow, intentional work—a discipline of paying attention. Our modern world runs on frantic rhythms, endless notifications, and disembodied noise. Sitting at the easel, applying these delicate strokes, is a way of returning to the ancient paths and finding rest for the soul.

This snowy egret tucked into herself, resting under the gentle arc of the moon, embodies that holy patience. Her head is bowed inward, her fine, feathery plumage softened against the vast lavender-blue sky. She neither fights the night nor rushes the morning. She simply abides in her season.

Not long ago, this painting found its way out into the world. The gallery shared the news of its sale, and the gallerist sent a gift that touched me deeply: a handwritten note and a small glass jar of raw Italian sienna pigment. In my own season of haunting clouds, holding that bottle of dry color felt like holding hope itself—sudden, weightless, and warm. It was a reminder of the beautiful circle between painter, painting, and those who welcome the work into their lives. And in that moment, I came to understand the poet’s words:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul.
—Emily Dickinson

The moon marks time, unaffected by the storms that rage below. Faith, hope, and love are fragile things that dark forces threaten to destroy. Yet they endure when we are actively present and attentive to those in our lives.

I hope this piece brings a moment of stillness to your day, inviting you to step away from the noise and rest in the gift of quiet beauty that surrounds us. I appreciate you taking a few moments to read this and your comments. Peace be to you.

For artists like me, painting nature is a form of prayer—a deep conversation with the everlasting Divine—the dance from darkness to light.