What I felt was peace, like a child sitting snugly in her mother’s arms. The feeling of safety. Of careful handling. The brushstrokes eased over me, flowing back and forth, until my eyes were opened. And suddenly, with varnish and paint smell all around, I felt very much aware. Awake.

It was only then that I saw him, my painter. He stepped back from his easel, the brush poised to add another piece, another line, reaching out to me like a father sweetly kissing good night on the cheek of his daughter as she drifted off to sleep.

He wanted to add more color, the bright blues in contrast to the dark room and stuffy wooden dressers that flanked the girl he painted. I became her, every inch of the bed where she slept, every hair painted on her head, and the look of confusion and anguish as she reached out into the darkness.

I felt his grief, the ache that tore his heart apart, the sadness that pulled him from one moment to the next, not wanting to give in to the depths of despair and yet not able to acknowledge his future. He wanted to move forward but couldn’t bring himself to tell her that his heart had healed, that he was ready to accept their life as it was. His paintbrush told me everything that he couldn’t say to another soul.

I’d seen him pace for days before me, my blank canvas an invitation to create, to be wild, to think beyond the moment, and make up a new story. I’d felt his shame, his confusion, and finally, the resolve that he must face the truth. It was then that he stopped pacing and looking at me for answers and, finally, created answers of his own.

The light from the window shone on me, warming my surface and making me the one thing in the room that the painter could not ignore. He’d slept there in the past; after each heartache he’d spend days pacing and crying and shouting out to God, while she did the same in another room.

But this time, it was different. He didn’t ask God why but just released his anger to him instead.

I tried to whisper to him, comfort him, but I wasn’t finished yet. I needed him to find his soul before I could come alive. We needed each other, and so it is with a creator and the object that forms from his hands.

He stayed up all night working on me until sleep took the paintbrush from his hand and gently set him down on the couch in his studio. He dreamed darkly, tossing angrily until finally, he relaxed, allowing his dreams to take him where they may. I could see his mouth release the frown that held his smile captive and witnessed his mind go to happy places filled with possibilities.

He had fought against the bright dreams that could bring him joy, not just this night but for the years they had continued trying. The two of them a special kind of army that simply wanted to share their love with another little person. Twenty years later, goodness had worn him down, and when he awoke, he looked relieved that I was still there waiting for him. I could read his thoughts, of what he had planned to add, layer by layer, to move me from blank canvas to masterpiece. Even then, I knew what it was I would become.

He moved the small table where he kept his paints nearer to where I stood, alone on his easel, and looked over my canvas with a new vision. He added the base, a mix of dark brown with shades of orange. Darkness that hinted at the light. The bed came next, a lighter wood that stood out against the night colors with a brilliant blue cover, shocking in its vibrancy, to protect the girl against her own dreams, the dark spirits that threatened to pull her out of this world.

Her red-gold hair and flowing curls softened the hard look of her face. She was sitting up, under the covers, looking out into her room, past the dressers that flanked the bed to the window outside. Was she seeing a nighttime visitor who had come into her room? A ghost that haunted her from the past? The painter asked these questions as he worked, dipping his brush into the mineral spirits and wiping it down with the old rag that had once been a pillowcase they’d bought for an unnamed, unformed soul they expected to share their life with in the years to come. He tore it into pieces the night before last, angry and desperate for answers. The pillow inside remained bare, stuffed in the corner of the room where he punched it each time he sat down to rest, a break from pouring his emotions out onto the canvas.

In six hours, he had the background completed, the bed where the girl sat upright under the blue cover, and the beginning of the darkness that would be her undoing. He took a break then, filling a cup with water and drinking it down without stopping, then doing the same with a second cup. He was thirsty for relief and answers, and he needed a clear head before continuing.

The painter left me to dry, opening the small window so a gentle breeze would help with the fumes and drying, solidifying my colors and the outline that would become his greatest work. With a last glance at me, he left. I knew he was walking down the hall to comfort his wife, to hold her close, and try and ease her grief.

But this time, he would stand again and walk back to his painting room a different man. The path to healing had begun, slowly but gently, and now he would return with a new sense of purpose.

He worked on me for three days, waiting for layers to dry, pacing before me slowly this time, not with desperation but with patience. He knew he was doing something that was now bigger than himself, something that would reach into his heart and steal the dark memories away. He knew I was part of his healing. There were times when he painted with hurried assurance and other times when he tentatively stepped back, allowing the universe to move his brush where it needed to go. He had calmed enough to listen to what God was telling him and in doing so accepted the gift of his greatest work.

He called me The Space Between Dreaming.