As an exercise in keeping things loose, I will often take a panel or canvas, and just begin. No plan. No sketch. No references. No schedule, nor constraint. And holding my brush at the very end, which nearly disappears any grip whatsoever, I begin painting.
I must admit, my hands have been much more willing than my brain or heart. (Oh, they like to hold on — as if they had control.) But in most of life’s creations, be it art or love, it’s the setting free that seems to gather the most in. The loss of judgement. The forgetting of shoulds and supposed-tos. This willingness to wander in what could be, while it can be somewhat uncomfortable, it can also be surprising, delightful even! Still, it’s not a guarantee, but without the tight grip, it doesn’t need to be. When it works, oh, how it works, and when it doesn’t, I am not trapped, nor tied.
And my hands don’t seem to tire of offering the lesson. They almost apear excited to give my heart a resting from the lead. “Looka here” they say as they dance across the page. And I am suddenly back in the kitchen with my mother, as she pulls me in by the waist and elbows her leading arm to mine, giving me the gentle push to know when to back up, to forget control, to simply love being part of the dance. And that love, that has never been in my grasp, has always stayed beside me.
