Tuesday’s paintings were not good but that’s ok. It’s what painting is all about—working through the bad stuff, seeing it, and then letting it go. It’s so much like psychology. Good mental health practice involves seeing your shit then getting rid of it without taking it out on others.
I needed to meditate. Yesterday morning I went up on the roof with my cup of café con leche, sat on the lovely blue concrete bench under the arbor behind the hammock, tucked my legs under me and tried to empty my mind. It maybe worked for about 30 seconds; I saw bright oranges and blues behind my eyelids, soft, like a Rothko painting. But then my silly mind tucked back in with its silly thoughts. When I opened my eyes I noticed a compelling little succulent next to me in a pot. As I went to get my drawing book, I noticed two small Seussian cacti calling to me from the edge of the garden. As I drew their intertwining shapes and funny little dots, I realized that I was lost in the moment without anything flooding my mind except what these funny little twins had to tell me. I was meditating.