When I sit down to write, I don’t always have a plan in mind for what I want to say. I just start writing. I might use a prompt, or some thought that’s swimming in my brain, but then one word follows another. I follow that path of words the way I follow a path of brushstrokes on a canvas, and I see where it takes me. Writing and painting are very similar for me. They come from the same place, it’s just the medium that is different.

I store small paintings in baskets, and sometimes I look through them and see something I hadn’t noticed before. Sometimes I see what direction a quick sketch wants to take. I store small writings on my computer or on my blog, and later I read it. That thoughtful part of me can speak to a troubled part of me, caught up in details of a busy or frustrating day. I trust the source, since I scooped those words, those thoughts out of myself. This is what I mean when I say writing and painting are like meditation.

It’s also why I keep saying that I paint and I write for myself. I have no agenda. No ulterior motive. I can love myself and validate myself without needing anyone else’s approval or agreement. But what a treat it is when someone else reads my words and relates to it so strongly that they want to contact me. In the same way, people encounter my paintings out in the world and send me messages, if they can find me. I’ve become rather untrusting. I feel unsafe in the world. Kindred spirits may have to be persistent in locating me, but it happens from time to time, and that can be wonderful.