There was a time I half-apologized for my paintings. I called them “little watercolors.” “Not real art, but I like them.” Or, “just something I do now and then.”
I dismissed them because I compared them to an ideal, rather than appreciating them for what they were: experiments in colors, shapes, patterns. A genuine communication of how mysterious and beautiful I found life to be.
But there’s only ever going to be one Van Gogh. Or Monet. We’re each unique. So the only painter I can possibly be is myself.
I’m not a formally trained artist. I haven’t spent my life studying and practicing painting. But I love to paint, and I love what I paint, imperfections and all. Painting satisfies the non-verbal part of me that has things to express. Even if it’s “just” flower patterns, or a mandala of multi-colored petals. Or a mermaid sitting in a quarter moon.
Each time I paint, I learn something new—about my technique, about shapes, and about what I’m trying to express.
Life is the same way. It’s the practice of taking chances, expressing our uniqueness, and growing into ourselves. It’s all about learning through making mistakes, getting up, and trying again.
And when I think of life as practice, I can let go of the ideal of perfection. I can choose to take imperfect action.
What do you hold yourself back from doing because you fear it won’t be “good enough”?
How would your life change if you did it anyway?