When I go in my Art Studio, my heart is open. It is happy. It wants to create, with a capital C.
I feel flush with possibilities even a little powerful. I sit down in my recycled rolly chair and smile a little. My breath is strong and even. “I can do this,” I declare to myself. “I know I’ve got it in me. I just know it.”
I pull out different tubes of acrylic paint. I inhale deeply. Boy, do I love the smell of paint. It thrills me to have my hands covered in the stuff, even under my nails, and on my temple where I scratched an itch. Swirling my fingers through it brings a smile to my face.
Bright colors. Muted colors. Pastels. These are the things that make my heart happy. Here, at my art table, my soul screams, “Yes!” I begin by squirting lovely blobs on paint right onto my table. These little piles smile up at me and reply, “We love you, we believe in you – you’ve got this – don’t be afraid – make us into something beautiful!”
My favorite worn out and frayed brush gets pulled out of a paint spattered tin with a clink. The air crackles with anticipation like too much static electricity. I dip. I swirl. My brush is poised above the snow white canvas.
I hold my breath. I can hear my heartbeat. Time stops. Everything fades into the background as my brush touches the emptiness. It’s like a gauzy Instagram filter. Only the colors are in focus.
Then, it happens. Art. Magic. Love. The blank space begins to come to life before my eyes. Slowly at first. Then faster. New colors join the table palette. New shapes emerge and I think I can hear them whisper to me. “You are doing it! You are bringing us to life. We needed you. You were the only one who could.”