It is snowing as I write this. It’s as if Christmas is here already.
I’m tucked in my house, warm, with a scarf wrapped around my neck, and I’ll put on the carols soon. I’ll let them play throughout the rooms and I’ll paint and I’ll be still. I’m trying to teach myself that being still is alright. I often think if I’m not constantly doing something — producing art to sell, or words to publish, or work to be paid for — I must be thought of as lazy and unable to prove my worth.
I desperately want to stop trying to prove my worth.
I desperately want to start making art for me.
As you probably already know, I’m scared of what you think of me. I wish I wasn’t. I try not to care. I want to be strong and independent and able to shrug all the opinions in the world off my shoulders.
But I’m not able to do that just yet. I’m most scared you’ll think I’m selfish or arrogant. I’m doubly scared you’ll think I’m both.
I think that’s why I’m fearful to make art for me. Because if I do that for myself, I must not be offering you something. And in my head, I always want to be offering the world something. Where will I get in life if I don’t offer the world my all?
But my soul is tired. Perhaps a bit unsettled, too. I’ve been feeling this for a long time, and I wish I could go somewhere alone for a few weeks — without my phone or the internet or possibly even my mind.
I’m going to make art for just me. I don’t know what that looks like yet. Maybe tangible art like painting or lettering, maybe more walks. Maybe more music and less noise. Maybe more hand written letters and more risks and taking more chances on who I am. Taking chances on who the God of this snow fallen earth designed me to be.
I’m going to go turn on the carols now. I want the songs to fill this room and the holy refrains to echo long after it’s been switched off.
I’m going to go make some art for just me.