I want to paint my Papa

My uncle Pete asked me to paint what I (putting heavy emphasis on I) thought of as the holy spirit. My uncle Pete is my Papas son and they are both Baptist Preachers although my Papa recently retired. It's funny how they keep up with current events and stay in touch with the world in a way that does not make their religious conviction upsetting or alienating to me. I am not religious but I can feel the strength of their presence and am uplifted by it. It is the humility and kindness. I thought long and hard about what I could paint that would satisfy my Uncle Pete's request and my own feelings.

Let me begin by saying that I recently laid in bed crying because all I have left of her is a few memories. I wanted to remember so much more and it was so painful, but one of those memories is her love, and my love for her, and I think to myself what better a memory could you give your grandchild than love. It took a few months for me to accept her death when I was little till finally one day I broke down hollarin' in my mom's arms. My Papa came in asking "What's wrong with him?" I was expecting to be told "suck it up." I was expecting another attempt at hardening me as the men in my family had done to me a little, but very much so to my mother. I didn't care though, "let Papa criticize me, I don't care, I miss Granny." Now let's keep in mind that this was the mind of a child. I didn't know what emasculation was but it was what I expected even if death had rendered me in a weak state. So my mom with a great understanding in her voice looked up at my Papa and said "He misses Granny." Then I looked up at Papa snot running down my nose, my cheeks drenched, and he looked down towards his feet, and continued walking down the hall.

One day afterschool I heard gospel music playing when I walked in the front door. I set my bookbag down and went about my usual business of making a sandwitch with bolongna and american cheese when I heard my Papa crying so hard he was shouting in pain. It was their aniversary.

After that it seemed like the ice had melted in the family. In sixth grade I would ride the bus to my Papas after school and talk with my Uncle Rod and him. Soon my Papa and I were becoming buddies. We'd joke around
"How ya doin' Guelly?"
"I'm doin' pretty good Papa"
"Well you doin' good but pretty?"
He'd often tell me little jokes and talk in riddles and rhymes. "You gotta get with it Guelly, you gotta be sharp." We'd also watch old westerns and re-runs of Kung Fu. It was funny to think I had ever been afraid of him.

One day my Papa took loaf of white bread and steped out onto the back porch. I watched him through the screen window. He started throwing out bits of bed on the ground and soon he was surrounded by dozens and dozens of pigeons. I thought how uncharacteristic. This man who talked of god and discipline showing compassion towards pigeons. Not only that but I could tell that he saw beauty and peace in them. These lowly street birds were beautiful and worth his attention. Upon recognizing the compassion in my Papa I was moved and felt very close to him. That moment is precious to me.

Just recently while reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kendura I came across a passage in which he said that the true test of our humanity is in how we treat animals. What can a pigeon offer us? Nothing. And yet we can still show kindness and appreciation and this selflessness is something special. It comes out of an awareness of nature and an empathy that comes out of being in a position where we can show compassion for it's own sake. I recently heard in my 19th century philosophy class that man is a place where nature becomes aware of itself. I can't remember what philosopher said this, but my Papa feeding those pigeons is an expression of this because it comes from a reflective state that may or may not be isolated to humans, but is most humane.

It is the moment I want to paint for my Uncle Pete; the moment that expresses what the holy spirit is to me. I have seen the holy spirit expressed as a white dove in numerous paintings, but for me the holy spirit is an old man, on his back porch, feeding a flock of dirty pigeons. I want to paint my Papa.