My wonderful two-year-old decided to potty train herself today while I was cooking dinner. She told me about her fait accompli with beaming pride and I was suitably impressed. I know I said in my first post that I did not intend to post about my kids, but they are at the forefront of my mind almost always, and I am so impressed by the force of their personalities and by their drive to learn and do things for themselves. And it was truly the high point of an otherwise fairly forgettable day.
I did visit an art supply store in hopes of finding a compact watercolor set to keep in my backpack. I didn't find anything better than what I already have, and realized that what I need must come from inside. I must find the will to make a place in my busy day for art. It is my only reliable connection to whatever it is that is deeper and richer and more life-affirming than anything else. I love to paint. I need to paint. I want to paint. So why do I do it so rarely? Because I am also afraid to paint.
More on that another day.
1 comment:
Paint in order to fail at painting.
Make failure the point, the strangely necessary purpose of pot and brush. Detonate! onto the canvas in florid mockery of talent. Violate yourself with pigment.
And never stop. In this manner will paint grow to fear you instead.
Peace, sister.
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