a chain of flowers.

My mom and dad are in town for a quick visit from the west coast this week. Since she is the one who nurtured my love for the arts, I really wanted her to come to my weekly painting class. It's rare for us to get time where it's just the two of us, so getting a couple of hours with her was a special treat. There was something soothing about getting to sit with my mom, create, have quiet conversation, laugh at the terrible muzak being piped through the store, and share in the learning experience. As you can see, we have very similar styles. And neither of us completed our paintings (all that quiet conversation, I suppose). I only wish she lived closer so we could go together every week.

embrace the journey, forget about the destination.

Results are very important to me. In fact, perfection is preferred, and planned for. Even the things I do to "relax" are about creating a final product that will be pleasing. Cooking a meal that will taste good to everyone. Working out so I can look like the folks in the P90X dvds (a girl can wish). Taking a photo that will accurately capture how beautiful my children are. No matter what, I'm always scoring myself and internally telling myself how I can improve next time.

What if I didn't care about the results at all? If I had nothing invested, except the time it took to sit and breathe? Risky, for me anyway.  I don't have a lot of extra time on my hands. When I find a spare moment to drink a cup of coffee, I find myself gazing up at the kitchen ceiling and reminding myself that come summer, I need to put a fresh coat of paint on it. It's been a long time since I did something just for the experience, where I didn't care if I was good at it or bad or what anyone thought.

I started thinking about what I would enjoy doing that would be something where I could truly embrace the journey without a care in the world of where I was headed. Wandering through Michael's, I overheard an announcement about a painting class. Perfect. I know nothing about painting. I don't need to be a good painter. It doesn't matter if my seascape looks like a murky bog or my fruit bowl is mistaken for a toaster oven. Why the hell not?

The first class was an interesting experience. Sitting at a table, in the middle of Michael's with my lovely instructor, I learned about how to hold a brush, blend paints on the canvas, and when to use what stroke. It was fun. For two hours, I was able to let go and just "be" (and was serenaded by a local adult contemporary radio station to boot).

I painted a tree, which for me, was fitting. It looks like a tree (or maybe a hat). Who cares? Certainly not me.