Beneath the Waning Moon
As I walk downhill along a familiar winding path through the woods toward the water's edge, the canopy slowly opens, and the weight of the forest gives way to the enveloping blue of the night. It is a blue that defies description, a color beyond language, and one that has always been a tonic for my soul.
My first successful painting of this scene was conceived in Maine but completed later in the studio. Painted at night in Del Ray during one of the most difficult periods of my life, it carried the full weight of personal heartbreak. That painting, The Longing, resonated deeply enough with Artemis Gallery in Northeast Harbor, Maine, that they chose to represent my work. I owe that painting a great deal. I still love it, but time has given me a deeper understanding of painting the night, and an even greater appreciation for the way life's hardships can become an unexpected source of artistic strength.
I have often found myself painting through periods of emotional upheaval. Early in my career, I recognized that the work created during those seasons possessed a depth and honesty I could never manufacture under easier circumstances. I quietly mark many of those paintings with a discreet "D," a private acknowledgment of the emotional landscape from which they emerged. This new work returns to the same place, but with a gentler palette and a quieter emotional voice.
Although this painting is lighter in color, it carries no less emotional weight. As I painted, I was caring for my mother while she slowly recovered from surgery. Watching someone you love endure pain day after day changes your understanding of time. Recovery is rarely a straight line. It unfolds through small victories, discouraging setbacks, moments of hope, and moments of exhaustion. Time seems to stretch and contract, measured less by the calendar than by each small sign of healing.
Throughout those weeks, this forest became my refuge. Walking this path beneath the night sky reminded me that the world continues to breathe beyond hospital rooms and homes filled with worry. The stillness of the trees and the vastness overhead restored a sense of perspective, allowing me to return with a little more strength than I had when I left.
This painting has become a meditation on endurance. It speaks to the quiet optimism that carries us through long weeks and uncertain months. The simple faith that we can continue taking the next step, even when the destination remains unseen.
As the painting evolved, the waning moon gradually became its emotional center. At first it was simply a compositional decision. I added it just as my mother came out of surgery, and in that moment it became something more. The moon naturally evokes the passage of time and the fleeting nature of our lives, but it also embodies rhythm, guidance, and renewal. It never truly disappears; it simply changes before beginning again. It became a silent companion within the painting, watching over both the landscape and the unseen lives beyond it for those finding their own way through seasons of uncertainty.
Looking at the finished work now, I realize it is ultimately about gratitude. Gratitude for the places that offer comfort when we need it most. Gratitude for the people we love, even when loving them means sharing in their suffering. And gratitude for painting itself, which has always given form to emotions that words alone cannot fully express.
For me, and for my family, the moon has come to represent all of these things. It reminds me that hope is rarely dramatic. More often, it arrives quietly—a sliver of light reflected across still water, a familiar path illuminated just enough to reveal the next step. That is the hope I wanted this painting to hold.
Better times lie ahead. They always have, even when I could not yet see them.
SEE ALSO: A Painting for Mother’s Day
