Another Truth about paintingOf all the issues that distressed me this last year when life jerked me senseless and while I struggled with the circumstances that were weighing so heavy on me, not painting and having no desire to paint was not one of those issues.
It was a peculiar feeling that I had many conversations with myself about. Why on earth did I feel: (1) I had painted my last painting. (2) I had painted all I every needed to paint. (3) The passion was not gone, just over.
And most of all, why on earth was I perfectly OK knowing I never needed to paint again? Being OK with not painting gave me more bewilderment than, not painting.
The paintings that I produce were on days when I forced myself to show up at the desk/easel. I felt like I was painting only because I was suppose to.
Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy painting and I was very pleased with my paintings. More than that I was confused that I could see a change or difference showing up on my canvases. That was probably all in my imagination. So much is.
As a side note to this truth: I discovered to recognize my edge. You know, that place where you are just about to go over. That place where stress has become more than you can bare. That place of explosion.
I learned the edge was near when no matter what I was doing, there was a whisper that I should be doing something else. I would stop cooking to go put a load of cloths in and stop putting the cloths to go take the dogs out and stop caring for the dogs to sweep the floor and stop sweeping to sit and stitch and stop stitching to cook and stop cooking to pick up the shoes at the door. Vicious circle. Eventually, I got a grip on all that. Somehow just knowing that I was at the edge was all I needed to come back.
Until the next day.
Note: This is the seventh installment of How the infusion of San Miguel may have effected me which started November 19th.