As an adult (after college) and as an artist I thought about what

Host:
The sunset filtered through the old studio’s tall windows, painting the room in honeyed gold and quiet dust. The air smelled faintly of linseed oil, charcoal, and the kind of silence that only exists where art is made. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls like sleeping thoughts, and a single beam of light fell across the floor — warm, divine, accidental.

Jack sat near the window, sleeves rolled up, a brush in hand but no canvas before him. His grey eyes wandered — not unfocused, but searching. Across from him, perched on the edge of an old stool, Jeeny watched him with her usual stillness — her brown eyes calm yet luminous, the way eyes become when they’re holding both faith and reason at once.

She held an open book in her lap, tracing a line of words with her finger before reading aloud, her voice soft as the light itself:

"As an adult (after college) and as an artist I thought about what was real, what sustained me — it was Christian Science. I was using that when I didn’t know it. Saying yes to the Light and your better instinct." — Alfre Woodard

Jeeny:
(quietly)
You can feel her faith in that, can’t you? Not as dogma, but as instinct — the kind that whispers rather than commands.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Yeah. “Saying yes to the Light.” It sounds simple until you realize how hard it is to recognize it.

Jeeny:
Or to trust it.

Jack:
Exactly. Most of us mistake comfort for light.

Jeeny:
But hers isn’t comfort. It’s clarity. She’s not talking about belief — she’s talking about awareness.

Jack:
An artist’s kind of faith. Seeing what others don’t, trusting it before it takes shape.

Jeeny:
And living as if that unseen thing is already real.

Host:
The light shifted, catching the edge of Jack’s jawline, turning it to bronze. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beam — small, golden particles, rising and falling as if alive, as if made from the breath of the word Light itself.

Jeeny:
You know, it’s strange — the way she says she was using faith “when I didn’t know it.”

Jack:
You mean, as if faith was acting through her before she could name it?

Jeeny:
Yes. I think that’s what real faith does. It doesn’t wait for doctrine — it lives in intuition.

Jack:
(smiling softly)
You sound like her.

Jeeny:
(laughing quietly)
No. I just think the truest beliefs are the ones that recognize themselves after the fact.

Jack:
Like realizing the thing you were calling hope was actually prayer all along.

Jeeny:
Exactly. And the thing you were calling instinct was grace.

Jack:
(quietly)
That’s the kind of religion I can understand — one that doesn’t need to shout its name to exist.

Jeeny:
And one that doesn’t punish you for discovering it late.

Host:
Outside, the faint hum of the city drifted in — distant traffic, a barking dog, a child’s laughter — the steady heartbeat of life itself. The studio, in its stillness, seemed like another world altogether: sacred not because it was holy, but because it was honest.

Jeeny:
You ever think about what “the Light” means to you?

Jack:
(pauses)
For me, it’s truth — the kind that doesn’t flatter.

Jeeny:
And doesn’t lie, either.

Jack:
Exactly. It exposes, but it doesn’t humiliate.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
That’s the kind of illumination Woodard’s talking about. Not divine punishment — divine permission.

Jack:
Permission to stop running from what’s right.

Jeeny:
Or to stop pretending you can’t hear it.

Jack:
(quietly)
Yeah. “Saying yes to your better instinct.” That’s faith stripped of theater.

Jeeny:
And maybe that’s the hardest “yes” to give.

Host:
A faint breeze stirred through the open window, making one of the canvases flutter like a heartbeat. The smell of rain mixed with turpentine — sharp, cleansing, almost spiritual.

Jack:
You know, I envy people like her. People who can find a compass without having to map the whole world.

Jeeny:
But she didn’t find it easily. She found it after doubt — after learning, after questioning. That’s what makes her belief interesting.

Jack:
Because it was earned.

Jeeny:
Exactly. She didn’t inherit it — she discovered it.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Like the way artists discover themselves — through mistakes they refuse to call failures.

Jeeny:
Or the way truth hides in contradiction.

Jack:
So faith and art are the same thing — both require surrender to something you can’t control.

Jeeny:
And humility to listen when silence answers.

Host:
The light dimmed slightly, turning more amber now — the golden hour sinking toward evening. The colors of the studio shifted with it — reds deepened, shadows grew long, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny:
When she says she was “using it without knowing it,” it makes me think — maybe faith isn’t something we find, but something we finally stop resisting.

Jack:
Like gravity — it was always there. You just stop fighting the pull.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Exactly. And the moment you stop resisting, you begin to rise.

Jack:
That’s the paradox. Surrender becomes strength.

Jeeny:
And humility becomes creation.

Jack:
That’s the secret artists understand — inspiration isn’t conquest; it’s consent.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Saying yes to the Light.

Jack:
And trusting it even when it feels blinding.

Host:
The rain began softly, tapping against the windows — a rhythmic, meditative sound. The flickering light reflected off the glass, making the droplets glow like sparks descending from heaven.

Jeeny:
You know what I love about her phrasing? It’s the “better instinct.” Not just instinct — better.

Jack:
Yeah. She’s admitting there’s a battle inside us — the instinct of fear and the instinct of love.

Jeeny:
And faith is just choosing which one to obey.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Every day. Every choice.

Jeeny:
Every brushstroke, too.

Jack:
You mean art as moral practice?

Jeeny:
Not moral — spiritual. Creation as communion.

Jack:
(pauses)
So the artist’s duty isn’t to impress — it’s to illuminate.

Jeeny:
Yes. To bring others closer to their own light.

Jack:
(smiling)
That’s harder than painting perfection.

Jeeny:
And far more necessary.

Host:
A flash of lightning lit the room for an instant, revealing every brush, every canvas, every imperfection in radiant detail. The light was gone in a heartbeat — but its memory lingered, shimmering in their eyes.

Jeeny:
It’s funny — how “Christian Science” sounds so formal, but what she’s describing feels universal.

Jack:
Because truth always outgrows its labels.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Exactly. You can name it religion, intuition, conscience — it’s all the same current.

Jack:
The current that pulls you toward what’s right — even when you don’t know you’re swimming.

Jeeny:
And the real miracle is when you stop fighting and let it carry you.

Jack:
(sighing quietly)
That’s the art of being human — learning when to row and when to float.

Jeeny:
Or maybe just learning to say yes.

Host:
The rain eased to a drizzle. The room was darker now, but softer — illuminated only by the faint afterglow of stormlight. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough.

Host:
And as the two sat in that quiet sanctum of art and reflection, Alfre Woodard’s words seemed to settle over them like a benediction:

That faith is not always named,
but often lived —
in every act of courage,
in every choice that says yes to truth over fear.

That light is not separate from art,
but the source of it —
a force that turns instinct into purpose,
and uncertainty into beauty.

That the journey of the spirit
is the same as the journey of the artist —
to see what others overlook,
to trust what cannot yet be seen,
and to share it so that others might remember
their own forgotten glow.

The rain stopped.
The window glistened.

And in the stillness that followed,
Jack looked at Jeeny and smiled —
not because he understood the Light,
but because, for the first time,
he stopped resisting it.