Maybe I Am, Afterall

I've always thought to myself that I'm not an artist. I may be able to paint, and I may be able to draw a little, but by no means am I an artist. An artist thinks, breathes, lives to create. An artist lives to breathe life into an empty, lifeless piece of clay or blank canvas. And although there are times when I am drawn to the blank, creamy whiteness of an unmarked piece of paper, I don't live for that. It's not my life, and I certainly don't feel an absence when I go for days on end without touching a pencil to paper.

But lately, there's been a box of watercolours sitting on the top of my shelf that seems to catch my eye every time I open my closet doors. They've barely been touched, once opened for an art project a year or two ago. But lately, every time I see them, something stirs within my heart. I need to paint with those, I think. I need to hold those watercolours in my hand and allow my heart to pour onto the white paper.

And so today I gave in, and I made my way to the art store to buy watercolour paper and some new brushes. I waited excitedly in the lineup (which just so happened to be incredibly long), wondering what I'd paint with my new supplies. And so tonight I finally pulled up my laptop for some inspiration, opened up the empty book of paper, and dug out my watercolours. And my heart is stirring. It's asking me to open it up, to discover what's trying so desperately to get out.

And then I think to myself,

Maybe I am an artist afterall.

Maybe Afterall, 9x12, Watercolour