There is so much we just do not know. We make up our minds about things without having the facts, but I guess it feels comfortable somehow to think we have a firm opinion. This is not only silly (I was going to say foolish), it is unkind. We sum people up at a glance, and then we feel slighted or offended when others judge us in this way.

We do not have the whole story.

In the process of painting, brushstrokes get covered up. They are still in there, preserved in the layers of paint. They are part of the process, and inform the visible layers.

Not everything in life works out as we had hoped it would. There are things we don’t talk about. Things we’d probably rather had never happened at all. All of those experiences are still a part of us. We went through them, and we learned something. They helped us to become who we are today. They still lay in the layers of our past.

Colors we can not see.