At times I have had delusional ideas about surrounding myself with perfection and about how I defined paradise. I tried to picture what my paradise looked like. Is it a blissful garden where nothing ever happens? Does it smell like coconut and sound like trickling water and birds singing? Or is it something totally different. Maybe paradise is where I am; a place where the only thing at rest is my heart. It's a place where a lot is happening. Maybe it smells like dish soap as I clean the kitchen after dinner and sounds like raucous music, children discussing homework and my parrot who really wants out of his cage.

Angelina’s Paradise is not a place; it is how she chooses to perceive her surroundings. She has the wisdom to see Paradise about her. The idea is not all that different from my painting Be Where Your Feet Are. - CB