There are art supplies all around my recliner, like a Michael’s blew up and everything burst from the packaging, allowing random markers and stamps and papers to mix together.
Except I didn’t have regular paintbrushes. Just my water brushes. And I didn’t want to get them messy with black in, so up I got, again, pulling out more…and then added them to the storm of supplies.
I’d sat down to work in my Book, as well as my watercolor sketchbook. I didn’t really have any idea of what I was going to do, just that I had that need, that deep urge that annoys like an itch until you scratch it. And as I sat there, I suddenly remembered all the things I’d wanted to do lately — a photo I’d seen on Instagram I wanted to draw, a few techniques with watercolor I wanted to play with, some abstract expressionism to just let go after the stresses of a day at work.
I was, to be frank, paralyzed.
Where do I start? Which one gets my attention and which is left to the side because I’m working late at night and getting tired? What do I need to do A, B, or C? Oh, I don’t have that here? Get up and grab it. This repeated several times, to the point I was grumbling and my knees were upset with the situation. When the mess started to gather on the right side of the recliner, that’s when I heard it:
You’re making it too complicated.
You know that voice. It’s the one you hear when the noise of the ego quiets and it can get through. It’s a voice of deep, pure love that always has your best interests at heart. It’s wise, and mine is a bit blunt. Your voice will sound and feel different than mine — we are all souls in bodies, unique and powerful. And mine was getting a bit frustrated with me and my indecisiveness.
By the time I’d cleaned everything up, it would be bedtime. No art would be created. I sighed and sat back in my chair, knowing I’d blocked my own art time by wanting to create something super mixed-media. That’s not what I do these days; I’m a simple girl with watercolors and paint markers and some paper and washi. A limited bit of supplies so they’re always available and easy to pull out and play. Why, then, did my brain start going in gracious directions?
It’s about what you are trying to express, not how.
You can say something just as loud with a ballpoint pen as you can with a desk of supplies.
The next morning, I lay in the quiet and let myself dive deep into my Inner Self, bypassing the ego. The part of me that wants likes and comments and to be noticed. I grabbed a ballpoint pen and started writing out my frustrations. I had the idea to draw something in between the columns of words, so I began doodling.
And I loved it.
Just a pen. And a journal. And the moment of quiet so I could say what I wanted with my art instead of focusing on the fancy supplies.
Later, I colored with watercolors. I shaded with colored pencils. I doodled with paint pens. All things in my little kit of supplies.
And I adore it.
I know what it says. I know what it means. If you see the same thing, if you see something different, remember: she started with a free pen from the tattoo parlor I go to.
So what are you waiting for?
