A couple of weeks ago, I set off on a socially distanced solo journey across the country to deliver two commissioned paintings to a friend in Southern California. I could have mailed them, of course. But at 48 years old, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want the next chapter of my life to look like. I’m an artist. I’ve always been an artist, but only recently have I confronted the truth that this is what I’m meant to do. Through my art, in all its forms, and by truly diving into what brings me joy, I realized I can create a life of abundance—not just for myself, but for others as well. And my god, that’s terrifying.
Delivering the paintings and then taking a nostalgic drive up the coast—reminiscing about a similar trip I took years ago with my kids, when they were about five and six—quickly became more than just a delivery. I needed time alone in the car (I did bring Dave, my literal “Road Dog”) to think, to feel, to…well, to figure out what I wanted—or maybe to find the courage to do what I already knew I should do. And so, for eleven days, Dave and I hit the road. I could tell you about all the breathtaking moments: sunsets that made you catch your breath, sea otters so adorable they nearly exploded your heart with love, towering redwoods, even the Christmas Star glowing over a rest stop near Amarillo, Texas. But what I really need to tell you about is the painting I found on the side of the Walmart exit in Fresno, California, in the dark.
I was on my way back, leaving Yosemite after spending the day there, and had planned to reach Fresno before stopping for the night. I was tired, needing to find a hotel. I also needed the bathroom—but it wasn’t an emergency yet. I pulled off at what I think was the second Fresno exit, turned right, and came across a Walmart Supercenter. I parked for about ten minutes, handling the hotel search, and noticed the lot seemed unusually busy, with lots of traffic—but of course, it was just a few days before Christmas.
As I lined up to exit the lot, I noticed a slender Black man standing near the driveway with a small cart of wares I couldn’t make out in the dim light. What caught my attention, though, were the canvases. Two were vibrant sugar skulls, and a third—less immediately striking—depicted a mother with large, intricate braids, a small child reaching for her hand, both looking out at the moonlight. Curious, I rolled down the passenger window and asked if he had painted them. He said no, his girlfriend had.
I asked the price, fully aware I had less than five dollars in cash. He said fifteen. I told him I’d go get cash and come back. As soon as the words left my mouth, I thought, “WHAT, Carie? You’re exhausted, still need the bathroom, and there’s no bank in sight!” But something inside me told me I had to go back. So I did. I planned to run into Walmart to grab a drink and get cash back—$20, I decided, to be generous—but a line blocked the entrance. Ugh.
Eventually, I found a small gas station with an ATM. Ten minutes later, I returned, and I’m sure he was surprised to see me again. I got out and began talking with him, trying to decide which painting to take home. He shared that he and his girlfriend had been doing okay, but recently faced struggles. She had picked up some canvases and paints and started experimenting. Selling her paintings, along with his other small items, had really helped them make ends meet. I told him how much I loved the colors, the brushwork, the energy—and he beamed with pride.
I finally chose one of the sugar skulls. He mentioned it was normally twenty dollars, but he’d sell it for fifteen as promised. I handed him twenty anyway, feeling it was worth more than that. He was deeply grateful, clearly proud of his girlfriend’s work. When I asked if she had signed it, he explained that she was shy and didn’t think her work was “good enough.” He even offered to have her meet me at a nearby Motel 6 so I could ask her, but I was too tired to impose and still needed the restroom. I asked his girlfriend’s name—Belvina—so I could honor her work on the back. I regret not asking his name.
I told him I was also an artist, and her painting would hang in my studio. I hope he told Belvina, and I hope she continues to share her beautiful energy with the world. I hope she finds the love and confidence to sign her work, proudly claiming it as her own. Sitting in the car, under a streetlamp, with her painting beside me, I realized that this small encounter—the purchase of a painting from a couple on a corner in Fresno just days before Christmas—felt like the purpose of the entire trip. It felt like affirmation, encouragement, and the kind of quiet confirmation we so rarely expect but desperately need.
The world needs art, light, and love. I am an artist, and I can bring that to the world, too—just like Belvina. And so, that’s exactly what I plan to do. If you’re in or around Fresno, look for this proud, smiling man near the Walmart Supercenter. Support Belvina’s work, and maybe, just maybe, let her know it’s time to sign her paintings. She deserves to shine.
