It was cold out. Her nose was red, and her cheeks stung a bit. Her fingers ached as she stretched them out from their tight hold on the pain brush in her grasp. Her fingerless gloves did little to stave off the actual bite of the East Coast winter wind. Still, she needed the grip to do this. Beside her was a capped thermos of warm water to clean the brush with and a dirty rag for drying them. Her feet were tucked under her weight and the canvas was laying in her lap as she worked. Hair tucked up inside her knitted cap and neck warm under her scarf. Every so often, she tucked her nose under the loose material to breath hot air on her poor nose before resurfacing. She was out here because she had a painting to do for class. The theme was silence. And while to her, the woods sang with life even now, a winter forest was silent as the night to most. Sure, she could have taken a photograph and done this in her room, but there was something so disconnected that way. It felt cold when painting from a picture. The textures and feeling in the air just lacked. It felt empty. Lonely. But here? Even in the biting air, she felt warm. She felt the way the plants around her slumbered. Some were alive and well, those hardy evergreens. Such a resilient creation of nature.
Her bag and phone sat to the side almost forgotten. She had music playing softly too keep her company, but no headphones in. The last thing she wanted to be was to disconnect herself from the world around her. The world she knew so well. Even across the country, the forest was like coming home. It welcomed her with an inner warmth she wished she could explain to others. Even with the cold tones and hues of the world around her, all dampened with a subtle blue-gray that came with the snow-laden clouds above, it was as bright as a hearth for her. Painting was therapy for her, just as sitting there was. Something she could pour herself into with all her feeling. Splatter. Dotting. Every stroke for her told a story. Her mediums changed for the mood she wished the portray. Today was watercolors. Fragility. Delicacy. How easy a moment could shatter forever. Yet how soft and gentle it all was. Winter was harsh to so many. Yet, for her, it was a new experience. The way the world was covered in the sheets of pearlescent whites and the colors danced off the iced crust that formed overnight.
She had been living in Summerview for two years now. She knew there would never be a time where she was used to the winters like this. It made her think, longingly, of California. The way the trees were towering and resolute. The deep browns and greens were shades she found nowhere else. It was a richness she grew so used to. While everything out here was vibrant and bright. Almost skewed by sunlight than shadow, the world back home held such a deepness to the world. Untouched.
Kenna shifted slightly on the blanket she laid over her rock perch. Under was a sleeping bag for waterproofing and to absorb the chill from the stone. When she looked to the side to rewet her brush and continue working on the bushes along the pathway, she noticed lichen attempting to grow around her and keep her company. A small smile crossed her lips and she let her finger stroke the darling lovingly and continued her work.