Another rainy day in Austin--Another day stuck inside.
Rather than loose myself in the folds of the couch, eyes glued to the tube, I decided to paint. Paint you say--Are you an artist?? I felt like it when I was flinging my wrist creating a menagerie of uninhibited brush strokes--bold yet intrinsically subtle in color. After five hours of delving into the crevices of my creative core/left lobe of my brain I realized what was on my canvas was really just a big yellow blob in a black abyss. The Yellow Blob
My gut was screaming "Stop--this is not good" as I tried to convince myself it was. Of course I ignored that voice and hung it on the wall for all to see and comment. Some liked it--some did not but to me it was shouting "it's a sham--I am just a blob on the wall." How could it be a sham--I can be a painter can't I??? Is painting and being a painter the same thing I questioned. I think not-- I concluded. Just because you can write does not make you a writer. Just because you can cook does not make you a chef. Maybe in a past life I was a carefree creator of whimsical beauty. In this life I am a meticulous and particular creature who has to color in the lines. Not because I aspire to be perfect but because it feels right. So as I listened to the pitter-patter of raindrops outside my window yesterday I carefully traced a meaningless but beautiful pattern over the yellow blob and began the painstaking process of painting precisely in each shape. As I did an overwhelming sense of peace washed over my body and all was right with the world--for a moment. I realized that no matter how bad I wanted to scribble outside the lines I just couldn't-- it was not in my make-up and no matter how bad I want to be the next Monet--I am just not. At the end of the day, I am who I am--somethings you just can't change.
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