Painting

... One of many reasons to paint

I paint when I feel stressed, feel trapped by life, when my enthusiasm and ability to act in one way or another have been constrained. When i disappear into the painting, I let go of the limitations, requirements and expectations, which works as an accusing finger - all the time it points and corrects.

When I first let my brush lead the colors on my canvas, for a moment I let go of the darkness, which had a tendency to drag me down and away. A darkness and hopelessness that just sneaked up on me without my conscious mind taking any notice. My words disappeared, and I had no language, to explain and make the best of me. I was trapped in a fear universe and could not even describe what scared me - it was indefinable. I gasped for breath and let the tears flow, when I no longer was able to stop them. They were flowing and flowing down my cheeks, and sometimes I wondered will they ever stop. However, it was only a thought that lied behind it all, and it didn't prevents the free flow of my tears.

When my dear husband bought me an easel and a canvas, I glanced at it and could not find that, it had anything to do with me. Like I'm not here, I'm gone. He put the canvas on the easel and left to make some coffee. He was nursing and created his own kind of fun and coziness, and let me be me. It's great, and I know no one like him who can make me feel loved unconditionally, without I have to play the role of the prevented one or to be someone other than who I am right now and in a moment.

In one way or another, he knows that painting makes me happy. It makes me feel free. There are no strings and no words are needed. I can just let the colors and canvas live their own lives. There is nothing to consider, no demands and no judgment. If something does not work for me, I can just paint it over and paint something else. Nothing is too late and everything is possible. There are no errors, no mistakes, and everything is exactly, as it should be. Not perfect in comparison with conventional standards, but perfect in relation to the sense of joy and peace that arises in me, both while I paint, and when I look at the finished result. The painting has served its purpose and becomes an anchor for a happy state.

Therefore I seize the brush again and again, and let the painting be my therapist until I have finished the process I'd rather not know of, and yet it is forcing itself on me and take my wit and my time.

I sip the coffee, suddenly standing by my side. My body gets started, and before I know it, I stand by the blank canvas and let the colors fill the empty space