The first mark is the hardest.

Blank canvas. Blank page. Blank year.

Always starting again. I find myself sitting here staring at this blank page, nothing written, waiting for me to fill it. Looking at a new interface (hi Substack!) that has the clunky mystery of all new things, nothing on auto pilot yet, and I realize just how familiar this feeling is. Like the beginning of a painting (at least how I work) - there’s a sort of perfume in the air of what wants to be created, I feel a ripe possibility. A magnetic pull inviting me in.

Like showing up for a blind date, you’ve messaged a few times, they made you laugh, you’re filled with anticipation, and even a little hope. And you walk into the bustling restaurant and realize you forgot to ask what color shirt they’re wearing. Your eyes look around searching for someone else’s eyes searching for yours.

Like taking a break from your morning practice because it’s winter and still dark and the body wants to sleep longer, and the warmth and weight of the comforter feels just too good to let go of for the chilly morning air. For the first couple of weeks it feels good to give in to the mush until you realize that the mush starts to bleed later and later into the day and finally you admit, it’s time to get back at it and and and… tomorrow, you decide, will be the day.

I find myself facing now, what I face each and every time I begin a painting. This desire to start off STRONG. Decisive. I want to feel like I know what I’m doing. I am creating THIS THING. Born into crystal clear perfection. And my god, does (my) creativity not work like that. At all. And each and every time I have to remind myself this will not end how it began. Sometimes there are small glimpses of the underpainting. The first brave marks. And sometimes the last mark is so entirely different than the first that I can’t even recall it’s birth. It having returned again to that ephemeral scent… a top note wafted away to reveal the full body base that only develops with time.

and speaking of….

This time of year carries the same weight of the blank canvas, waiting to be filled, asking questions of resolutions, goals, accomplishments Q1, 2, 3, and 4 - and those questions are helpful, visioning is helpful. However, when you are trying to catch the wave of a creative practice, of closing that sometimes daunting gap of what wants to be with what actually is, right now. I’ve found the only way I’m really able to start, is to just dive in. And I wish I was talking about the sleek and technical high dive cutting through water like a knife, but usually, for me, it looks more like clomping into the ocean from the shore, moving sand gripping my feet, a little too cold for my liking, and some blend of sloshy kneel and plugged nosed baptism.

Get in where you fit in. Grab the first color you’re thinking of and just move the paint. Maybe a soft yellow… slap it on. Whew. The seal of beginning is broken, and now the deeper practice begins. The practice of trust, trust in your ability to listen, and respond.

The trust that all creation is actually co-creation. Co-creation with your chosen material. With your ever fluctuating mood and energy levels. With the city sounds and distractions. With the creative undercurrent orchestrating all of these things into whatever this symphony of ever-changing movement we call life, is. Trust in my lack of control. Not only trust in my lack of control, but actually the belief that my willingness to be surprised will make everything I do infinitely better. I wish I could say finding this balance has become easier, honestly, it hasn’t, but it has gotten faster, and my tolerance for it, higher.

So if you’re new here, welcome. I have no idea what this newsletter will become (although I can catch a couple whiffs of the perfume). I have no idea what paintings I will paint. I’m not entirely sure what will be shared here. I have no idea what these eyes, looking at the screen, will have seen by the end of the year. All I know is that I’m excited to create it all with you.

The Meditation Painting I’m Contemplating…

Ease Is My Center, Ease Is My Choice - 7.25x10in on paper.

If you’re new to my work Meditation Paintings are intention based artworks used to call in desires and transformation. Each dash represents an intention repeated. Similar to other meditative objects like Mala beads or Rosaries, each dash represents the mantra, blessing, or affirmation repeated to infuse the piece with the intention. The classic size that started this series (shown here) has 300 dashes. In some systems of numerology 300 is considered to be a number of transformation and creativity.

You can work with them in many ways, one way I practice contemplation is akin to putting a record on at a dinner party. You know you love this album, it’s supporting the general vibe of the evening, sometimes it’s drowned out by a conversation that has you rapt, or hidden by the table’s laughter so you forget it’s playing at all, and sometimes everyone goes quiet all at once and you notice the melody underpinning the night, or your favorite part of the song comes on and you can’t help but sing along.

The mantra: Ease Is My Center, Ease Is My Choice.

I’m noticing where I tend to choose complexity, and making things harder than they need to be. Sometimes simply because it feels familiar. And sometimes it’s perfectionism, or fear of moving forward (blank canvas), but my engine’s revved and I’m set up to go, however, instead of going forward, something in me decides it’s much less scary to go around in circles. But you can only do so many donuts in the parking lot before it’s time to hit the road.

There’s a million reasons to not make the first mark, press publish, get my ass out of bed and meditate. And all the stakes of doing it, or not doing it, are basically made up by me. So why not choose ease as an internal posture, knowing that while I don’t control the entirety of my circumstance I can control the grace with which I dance with it. To listen to today and respond, and let the painting reveal itself. Each movement a wash of yellow, to be covered by the next movement green, then blue. I’ve not decided the ending, I’ve only decided to start again.

Your fellow wanderer,
Allison