I awake to find myself surrounded by darkness.  No forms, no surroundings, no sounds tell me where I am at.  I begin looking around, willing my sleepy eyes to show me that which the darkness hides, that which I cannot see.  Soon, the darkness begins to make way to the light, the forms that were hidden begin to show themselves to me.  As I glance around, I realize it’s as if I am a toy in the top of a toy box, awakened by the child’s cries. Perhaps I am a nightlight on the wall, lighting the way for the mother to return at a moment’s notice to her sleeping beauty’s side.

    I begin to look around.  A soft, white light illuminates the area from an undetermined source.  Everything has a pale glow to it, seeming to keep total darkness at bay in the distance.  A baby's small, white, hand-crafted wooden crib comes into focus.  It's delicately placed designs show the care that was placed into it's construction, details and a immense amount of time spent in it's creation.  Fine linens line the interior of the child's bed.  Small, soft pillows hint of a comfortable sleep.

    I hear a faint cry of a awakened baby, but I cannot discern where it is from.  I hear the softest of foot steps from what I believe to be the hall.  They hurry faster than any normal human could, but they almost do not make a noise.  They seem to almost not touch the ground.  Quickly the room's door, white and large, opens almost without a sound.  Someone rushes to the crib, softly taking the tiny mass from within it's protecting boundaries and pulls it close to their chest.  They begin to move quietly away and I am compelled to follow, but find myself being pulled along.

    Slowly, the movement goes not more than a few feet and the darkness begins to make way to the light again.  The background is black: nothing has been painted to fill in the surroundings. There is no light or shadows, just a mother holding her baby girl in her arms. She wears an opaque white nightgown that flows as if she has been moving, but her stance indicates that she has been standing still. Her baby is wrapped warmly in a cozy blanket with her mother’s arms snug around her body. The baby is pressed against the mother’s breast, her mother’s heartbeat soothing her to sleep. The mother’s body seems to glow, illuminating the surrounding darkness, caressing and enveloping the baby in the warmth of the mother’s love.

    As I stare, I now notice that there are trees surrounding the small clearing; the darkness has made way to form.  There are tiny woodland creatures peaking around tree trunks and protruding rocks. The surroundings have formed into a grassy glade; the winter’s moonlight softens the scene.  Snow can be seen just outside the surrounding of trees that form a circle to keep the cold out.  The clouds partially hide the moon’s light, softening it to a very dim glow while the bare tree limbs, stripped by the coming of winter, all but diminish the light completely, leaving but a soft touch accented by the mother’s natural glow.  If I did not know better, I might believe that the light did not come from the moon, but from the Mother instead.  It’s as if the whole scene has been touched by an angel.

    The world that I once was a part of, the person who was looking from the Toy box, no longer exists. Now, only the glade with the mother and her child that I am a part of exist for me. I look up at the scene as if I am one of the leaves flowing by, catching a glance of the scene or one of the creatures, hiding just at the edge of this magnificent scene.

   The mother’s eyes are bright blue and her skin is pinkish white. Her nightgown flows from her ankles and her wrists, revealing only her bare feet and her soft hands. Her shoulder length hair is soft brown, thick and curly at the end. It is pushed out of her eyes, off to the sides of her face. Her body’s frame is medium, like that of the Goddess Venus, the archetypal mother. She stands steadfast like an oak tree, unyielding in her quest to patiently calm her child back to sleep. Her shoulders are high, confident in her abilities. Her whole physique honors the generations of mothers past and all the mothers to come. 

  As the world surrounding the mother takes form, I begin to see movement. The trees sway softly in a steady rhythm from a gentle winter’s breeze. The brown leaves of fall, what few are left, quietly make their way past the scene, avoiding the aura of the mother. The mother’s gown sways in unison with the trees as she softly sings a lullaby to calm her child back to sleep--her eyes locked upon that which she holds most dear. The surroundings should be cold by now, but there is soft warmth coming from within the mother’s heart creating a comfortable enclosure like a cozy blanket on a cold winter’s night. The baby quietly sleeps knowing her mother is by her side. There is no hatred to corrupt the scene; love and warmth comfort the enclosed glade.

    I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to all the beauty that surrounds me, trying to adjust to the glory of the scene.  I find myself, a person, looking through a window, starring at a newly painted portrait.  As I look around, I wonder what happened, was I a part of that Painting, if only for a moment?  Is there a better way to immortalize a mother’s love for her child than to paint it with as a picture? I do not believe so. I have seen a wondrous portrait of a mother and her child and observing it led me into a world of creation and imagination. When a painting has caught a moment like nothing else can, one can do nothing but stand Star-Struck--staring into the picture, creating a world out of the picture and becoming a part of the picture.

        In this dreamlike state, I could have lived the rest of my life; in this world, it’s as if I actually have. "Reality" returns and I find myself in a mall, looking at a hand painted portrait, a sample in the window of a studio.

        I know now that a portrait, this portrait, will always hold a glimpse into the essence of a mother’s love for her child, within my heart and mind.