It's raining again. Seattle hasn't decided if it wants to fully embrace spring yet and I feel the heaviness of the previous semester of grad school weighing on my bones. Everything around me acts as if it is in waiting. Waiting to bloom, waiting to change, waiting to move.
I was grateful to be accepted into an artist residency program at my grad school during the break between semesters. It felt like a way to bring consistency and creative rhythm back to my body. I loved the idea that I was being given permission to just create and paint in a large space.
I watched as my canvases changed throughout the first 24 hours. I felt the pressure to perform, to put something out into the world that was "good." It was the fearful internal voice that pushed me forward. I realize now perhaps the kindest thing to do is to sit with myself as I wait with beauty, instead of rushing on to the next project or idea.
I'm still here, waiting. Waiting to bloom, waiting to change, waiting to move. But it feels like something is happening even in the waiting.