-A moment woven in art, friendship, and grace.
Juni POV
In my entire career there are 3 times that have struck me and will stick with me forever. I’ll start by telling you the first.
I was celebrating a milestone in my career.
There stood my friend Brittany —
in all her beauty.
Red hair glistening in the entrance light.
A sheer white dress, layered with protection,
flowing over her long legs,
her feet in soft white heels.
“Oh girl, you look like a walking dream,” I said.
“Oh Juni! You’re here! And look at you — dashing.”
We laughed —
turned it into a complimenting contest.
As we always do.
I followed her inside.
And the moment I stepped in —
I was breathless.
Spiral stairs curled against the wall —
not to climb,
but to be.
Art for art’s sake.
On stage,
a painter moved in silence,
while a violinist poured her soul into strings.
Melody met paint.
Color danced with sound.
You could feel the sparkle in the air —
the quiet hum of something sacred being made.
Amazement filled me.
Brittany smiled —
she didn’t need to ask.
She knew how this made me feel.
She led me to her friend.
As we walked,
I admired the art on the walls.
God does have favorites —
only a few are given the gift to create such beauty.
And I,
an art lover at heart,
felt my eyes dance with joy.
Then I saw her.
Yuvy.
She looked like an angel hand-picked by heaven.
In a red velvet dress —
hugging her frame at the top,
flowing at the bottom,
giving her grace,
giving her shape.
Small in stature,
even in heels.
A delicate face,
ageless.
Elegant.
Her complexion glowing —
not with makeup,
but with presence.
Like she was saying,
“You are safe. Come closer.”
“Yuvy!” Brittany greeted,
trying to mimic her British accent.
“This is Dr. Spring,” she introduced.
“Oh, nice to meet you,” Yuvy said.
“I’ve heard awful lot about you.”
“Only good things, I hope.”
“Only good. She speaks of your work like it’s her religion.”
My heart warmed.
Her voice —
thick British accent,
slipping off her tongue like honey.
And then:
“If you’re as good as they say, your work is quite impressive.”
A woman after my heart.
Brittany cheered her on.
Then we found our seats —
on a small balcony,
just off the floor,
with a perfect view of the stage.
A waiter brought champagne.
We sipped.
We waited.
The painter finished.
The curtain closed.
Then opened again —
revealing a harpist.
She played.
The first note touched my soul.
I closed my eyes.
Opened them —
and six ballet dancers descended like floating dragonflies.
The floor parted.
A platform rose.
There was Yuvy —
seated before a canvas,
tools ready,
heart open.
She began with clay —
applying it fast,
with purpose.
Water. Tools.
Smoothing. Shaping.
As the harp played,
the dancers moved —
not around her,
but with her.
A living painting.
A field of sweet peas.
When she changed technique,
the dancers shifted —
ballet to contemporary.
The lights changed hues.
She dipped her brush in water.
Used cake bags to pipe delicate flower forms.
Colors ready.
Hands swift.
She painted a field to match.
The art glistened —
wet, alive,
like it was breathing.
And Yuvy —
she was glowing.
Not just in the light,
but from within.
She was exactly where she belonged.
Doing what she loved.
When she finished,
she stepped aside.
The screen magnified her work —
every texture,
every line,
every heartbeat in clay and paint.
The dancers moved toward her.
Ended with a head on each shoulder.
They bowed.
We stood.
Applause thundered.
I exhaled —
a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
Brittany looked at me.
No words.
My face said it all.
Yuvy had given us more than art.
She had given us witness.
The waiter brought another round.
We toasted —
to my new beginning,
to the women it would change.
Later,
Yuvy came to our table —
not a speck of clay on her.
Her red velvet dress moving like water with every step.
“You’re a wonder,” Brittany said.
Yuvy blushed.
We spoke —
of her passion,
her fire,
the way her art holds space for healing.
She spoke with grace,
with kindness,
with a voice that carried her soul.
What a woman.
So special.
She carries her heart
in the palm of her hands.
We stayed until the night was old.
Until it was time to part.
And as I left —
I carried her with me.
Not in memory alone —
but in hope.
Because when you see someone rise like that —
in softness,
on stage,
in light,
in front of the world —
you remember:
We can all bloom.
It might not be seen all at once.
But we do in our own sacred time.
And that night —
I saw it happen.
In clay.
In paint.
In dance.
In a red velvet dress.
And I knew —
This was not just art.
It was an epiphany.
Dgoldenblossom 🌸
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