“It’s just a stupid piece of paper.”
“You cannot make a mistake.”
“What would you paint if it didn’t matter?”
“What would you paint if you could be really, really bad?”
“Your painting doesn’t mean anything.”
What the hell am I doing here?
After five days of painting, hitting my own personal wall of resistance several times already, yesterday I was plagued with this thought.
What was I thinking to come here and be among thirty-five others most of whom have painted with Michele in this Point Zero way for many years?
Inadequate. Stupid. Way out of my league. Impatient. Especially ridiculous to think I could ever teach this method when I can’t get out of my way to paint a simple dot, line or colour.
I had made this pilgrimage to surrender to the Mystery, the Unknown inside each of us, around and through us, to paint true. And yesterday, when Michele offered, “Be inconsistent” I realized that in the so-called beauty and balance of what I was painting, I’d lost the vitality, life, and energy. Instead of being naked in my vulnerability of not knowing, my mind was becoming attached to the images and the imagined story of the painting.
Self-disappointment – doubt – criticism.
Write it out. Take a shower. Paint through dinner and beyond, in the silence of a quiet studio, with a few compadres on the path, each of us finding our own way back home with every brush stroke.
Early in the morning, the day after a full moon hidden deep within the last night’s clouds, I walked the labyrinth by the studio, reciting aloud the meditation on Loving Kindness. I found my way to the centre surprisingly fast, even though my steps were easy and rhythmic.
May I carry this experience with me into the process today.
“Let it come.”