skin

My grandmother's weathered hands told stories older than memory. She reminded me of Avvaiyar, that ancient Tamil poetess who stripped life bare to its wisdom. At PaybookClub, sharing our family journals, I watched others discover their own layered histories etched into aging pages. Swami Paramarthananda once spoke of peeling away illusions to find our truest self. That's what art does—it removes protective layers. My painting exposed my vulnerable skin, my doubts rendered visible. The embarrassment faded when community embraced it. Strangers became kindred spirits, recognizing themselves in my brush strokes. We were all shedding, all revealing, all finally home within our shared heritage.