Monday invitation: Let’s roll around together
This week I cleared out a tiny studio space at the top of our house. It’s the eyrie where I perched to write the last pages of my PhD, the summer that we had just moved into this house. I remember feeling hot and bothered up there and wishing I could be downstairs in the rest of my life again. Perhaps because of that, the space soon got overlooked in favour of the much bigger downstairs room where I work with clients or the kitchen table where I like to sit in the mornings. The poor, old abandoned roof space had become a bit of a dusty dumping-ground.
But last week I cleared it out. I was craving a new space – a light, airy private space that has something to do with making things in secret. And I realised that I already had just that space. Time to reclaim it.
On Saturday, I went up there and unwrapped a new canvas and some acrylics. I had decided that I would make a painting to go in a space above our bed and I felt full of zizz and spark at the idea of getting the paint on the canvas – and my fingers.
Now, can I just add that I have never really painted before. I have no idea about technique. I just knew that I wanted to do it. And what did I discover? That painting is just like writing.
Yes, the small square of blue sky framed in the window above my head. Yes, the white clouds passing, the sound of birds, the sunlight on the table. Yes, the thrill of mixing a colour and experimenting with different sized brushes.
There was a moment when it was just right – the bluey-green seemed just the right shade of bluey-green, a little hazy, letting the paint underneath show through. Everything was flowing – my hand, the sun on my shoulders, the smell and feel of the paint.
And then I thought something like, ‘Now, I just need to get more texture here and add in something with a finer brush here… and what is it that I’m making, anyway? Does it need more of this here? Does that look a bit clumsy?’
Gone! My painting suddenly more thought than felt. Over-thunk. Bang. Gone. In one teeny moment!!!
And I thought, this is just like making a poem. The minute I catch myself saying, ‘Oooo, I’m writing a poem about X, Y, Z ,’ I might as well get up from my desk. Because I’ve already left the process. I’m sitting outside of it going ‘Oooo’ and ‘Errrr’ and ‘Not good enough’ and ‘That would be better.’
I looked at my painting – you know, the one that was supposed to go in that space waiting in our bedroom, well, that is if I’d actually been capable of doing it right - and I heard myself starting in on more of this, just for a second, ‘See, not as good as you thought you would be, are you? What did you even try for? Why didn’t you just stick to writing?’
And then I realised. And I laughed. I had a good old chuckle at myself.
I think I’ll be painting over the canvas and beginning again – some parts, anyway. But at least I know that I can.
And I had so much fun painting.
Even now, I’m looking at my painting and thinking, I’m going to be kind to myself about it and curious about what will happen next. And I feel a big surge of joy for this new process I’ve discovered.
It seems that painting, like making poems, is all about the process. Surrendering to it. Rolling around in it. Loving it. Laughing about it. Knowing you can start all over again and make something even better. Remembering to trust that there’s so much more where that came from.
Funny, that. Who would ever have thought it?






