It wasn't about being good. It was about being honest with my hands. Somewhere between losing people and finding new ones, I had let painting become something I did "when I had time," which is another way of saying never. I picked up a brush again almost by accident — a half-empty tube of cerulean, a piece of card stock, nothing particular to say.
The first thing I painted was terrible. A wonky flower with no composition and too much blue. I stared at it for a minute and then kept going. That's the thing about making art when no one's watching — there's no reason to stop.
I think I stopped painting the first time because I started caring too much what people thought. I was sharing things online before I even knew what I was trying to say. That kind of attention, even when it's kind, can make you second-guess the raw version of a thing. And the raw version is usually the most important part.
Now I paint in the morning before anything else happens. Before coffee, before my phone. Just light and color and whatever the last dream left in my hands. Most of it doesn't go anywhere. Some of it turns into a print. All of it turns into something I needed.
That's enough.