*****

I've realized in recent years that painting is like meditating.

The harder one grasps, the more elusive success is.

(In fact, should there even be any expectation of success to begin with?) I am beginning to find that there is a surrendering to the journey that both painting and meditation share, and dare I say life as well.

We'd been in our new home on the beautiful Central Coast for four months before the dust of moving and an unexpected health scare finally settled, leaving me feeling un-moored and restless. To make matters worse I wasn't painting and I couldn't understand why.

I wasn't burned out, I wasn't short of pending projects. I was creative and playful in the kitchen and home but I just couldn't paint. I had a beautiful new studio I didn't want to step foot in. What was going on?

I was blindsided by my seeming indifference to all this breathtaking nature around me. Once upon a time, when we lived three hours south, this magical stretch of coastal land was my creative muse, never failing to inspire paintings and art projects. I'd been so excited about moving here. To be a permanent resident to inspiration is truly a dream come true.

And yes, just like I'd imagined, now that I live here, there's breathtaking bay sunsets everyday. Woodlands far more enchanting than anything I'd ever encountered before. Miles upon miles of coastline to indulge my waterborne soul. But every time I started a painting, it sputtered like a car out of gas. Somewhere between the Knolls and Baywood, I had lost my 'way in'.

So I revisited my inner Labyrinth and started meandering my way back to my center. I began to ask Beautiful Inquiries once more, plumbing my depths for answers.

How can I be joyful about painting again?
What do I need to change to have fun with my art?
Am I paying attention to all four realms of my creative life (Labyrinth)?

I looked for ways to relax and took up meditating.
I read stacks of books from watercolor techniques, to tarot symbolism, to Buddhism.
I painted color charts, re-organized my tools, created artist explorer kits in several to-go sizes.

Progress was slow. And then somewhere along the way came this quote :

"If I don't notice, I can't see, and if I can't see, I won't understand."

It was a quote by Chade-Meng Tan, in a book about the joys of meditation. I was listening to it while trying yet again to paint somewhere out in the Elfin Forest near my home.

As the words sank in, my brush moved as if by magic. Like my meditation sessions, my mind quieted down and I released all expectations of creating works of masterful composition and deep, symbolic motifs.

I began the simple act of noticing.

The jeweled pinks around the sun sinking into the horizon.
The rich, earthy greens of the marshy lands.
How the candy violets of the clouds sparkle in its watery mirror.

I made two little paintings that evening. It was the most fun I'd had painting in three months.

Over the next few weeks I pondered that magical little session, trying to understand what it was that clicked. I had found my way in again. But what changed?

The lesson was so simple I almost missed it.

I had to learn how to see again. For years, I'd been coming to this part of the world to be inspired by nature. An entire deck of cards was created up and down the Central and Northern Coast. But seeing something on vacation/creative adventure is different from living around it.

Familiarity sets in when you live side by side with beauty. There's danger, even for the most wondrous of landscapes, to fade into the background and get lost in the humdrum of everyday.

Learning to see with fresh eyes and a beginner's mind, to fall in love over and over with the ordinary, day after day, is vital for the artist's soul.