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In defense of my life…I am a painter

I decided today that I am a painter.

Last week, as I registered for school I struggled with balance between work and school.  At it’s simplest…I feel guilty to be going to art school.  I feel guilty and even silly to call myself an artist.  Who gets to decide that? I am not a very good artist, yet. Maybe I will never be.  I don’t know.  The guilt is not helping.

Give up the guilt? If it were that easy.  When people learn I am in school they ask, “what are you studying?”  I know  they expect me to day something practical, like nursing or accounting.  I know they do because they have told me so.  When I answer art, there’s a pause, then nothing. And I try to explain…’pipe dream”, “always wanted to do this”, or worse “I know it’s not practical, but…”

I am ashamed of my lack of conviction.

But this morning, as I stood at my easel, painting cold white figures, the oil was warm on my canvas and every stroke was living and new and right.  Right in a soul confirming way.  This is what I am supposed to be doing.

In that moment, I decided, I am painter.  I am over forty and I have been painting for less than a year; I have no skill; I have no idea how to properly clean and care for my brushes, I’ve never stretched a canvas, or finished an oil painting,  but I am a painter. I am a painter.

this is what it is to make art

so much time before

so much thought, little of it creative

so much of it pushing and tearing apart

the mind is the artist’s bully

the constant tormentor

full of reasons why not

ready to say ‘pack it up and settle’

or ‘it could be easier’

and then we ponder

what is easy

rita said ‘to make art is scary, you should prepare yourself for that’

no lesson plans for fear

only time and time

and more time


Reason is powerless in the expression of Love.
::: Rumi :::


life is especially good

in love


i wish that i wrote more



something new

not a chain, or a road, or even a simple

path of flattened blades of grades

rather it is like breath

always there

but often unnoticed

until it changes

then one might say,

“when did this happen?”

looking back,

there are sometimes signs,

but often not

simply one day is more different

than the last

and we are

I am

something new