I’d gone to bed disappointed, disheartened, because this …
I celebrate being with that sadness and frustration. I celebrate awareness. Hooray, I saw the stories that sparked those emotions: ‘you ruin everything’, ‘you’ve overdone it’, ‘you’ve made a brown mess’, ‘you don’t deserve to even put a mark on the page’, ‘typical, you just keep throwing energy into a bad plan’, ‘you’re crazy, spending all this time’, ‘what a waste of paint’
Stories. Stories. Deep old stories? Gifts even. Because having sat working with paint, in flow, my mind had slowed enough to see those stories. To witness them. To stay with them with a glimmer of curiousity.
Who says brown is bad? Or effort must always produce satisfaction? Okay, maybe I was wanting to learn. But who really knows how art will turn out, and where’s the creativity in certainty?
I went to bed. I picked up The Self Acceptance Project, which I’d set aside a few weeks ago. I read:
‘Disengaging from The Voice requires a willingness to consider that we’ve spent our lives hoodwinked by suffering–and that it’s possible to be free … Choosing not to believe the superego and the worthlessness that is its counterpart is like choosing not to diet; it’s radical because let’s face it, it’s comforting to have a voice in your head that is absolutely certain about what’s wrong and what’s right, what you need to do to be loved , safe and successful.’ – Geneen Roth
Slept. Morning. Exercised. Decided to return to the browned page and let the oil pastels glide for the sheer joy and freedom of relaxation, release, and the compassionate possibility of noticing more and believing less. It’s creativity. An adventure. The choice of persisting. Or turning the page.
Along came the flowers. I share them to celebrate the freedom of expressing unique art of my own body & heart. May you enjoy the wonder of expressing yours.