Another month has come and gone, marked by the familiar rhythm of my practices: another canvas painted, another 100 kilometer run logged, and a couple more books thoroughly digested.
Yet beneath these steady achievements, it has actually been quite a strange month for me. I have found myself drifting into deep waters of introspection, moments that have occasionally felt uncomfortable, raising far more questions than answers. I’ve been battling a persistent lack of energy, a heavy sensation that feels as though my body is trying to whisper a vital message to me, though I haven’t quite figured out the vocabulary to understand it yet.
Perhaps it is simply the shift in the seasons. The weather is visibly turning, steadily giving way to the monsoon rain. This morning, my entire running session was spent under a downpour, and to be completely honest, it was absolutely wonderful. The cool water felt like a physical awakening against the stagnant mood I've been carrying.
It could very well be this atmospheric transition that is making me feel so untethered. To counter it, I have started dedicating more time to yoga. Initially, it was just a practical way to stretch out my muscles after long runs, but it has quickly evolved back into a bridge to feel closer to both my body and spirit. Yoga truly is amazing. Ever since I first discovered it a few years back, it has remained a magnificent, grounding practice and a deep form of moving meditation for me.
Books have also kept me close company during these quiet weeks. I read quite a bit this month, ultimately finishing two very different works. The first was a lighter, engaging read that gave me a welcome sense of comfort and distraction. The second was The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster, who happens to be one of my favorite authors. His work operates on a much deeper frequency. It challenges me to learn, to unlearn, and to view the different perspectives of life through a completely unique lens. His writing is always deeply original and sometimes intentionally complicated, but that complexity is exactly what draws me to him.
Meanwhile, my current painting has been a quiet, constant witness to all of this internal processing. It is still very much in the "figuring out" stage. It doesn't convince me yet, so I choose to stay with it, pushing through the uncertainty and working on the canvas until I intuitively feel that it has arrived at its natural conclusion.
Sometimes I wish I could be a more predictable artist, that I could rely on a fixed timeline to know exactly how long an artwork will take to finish. But that seems to be an impossible feat for me. Each piece possesses its own timeline, its own stubborn character, and its own individual reason to exist. I have learned to respect that sovereignty. It sounds strange to speak this way when it is my own physical hands holding the brushes, but I prefer to consider the paintings as distinct individuals rather than my own personal creations. It feels as though I am merely the vessel allowing them to come through.
I keep contemplating this current piece, constantly tweaking and changing it. Maybe I need to listen to the signs my body and mind have been sending me. Perhaps it is finally time to take some genuine creative risks and try entirely new approaches.
There is an undeniable shift happening deep within my core right now. I am feeling a powerful, liberating desire to have less control over the final outcome. Control is important, don't get me wrong, there is always a need for technique and intention. But right now, I am learning to trust the beauty of letting go, allowing both the canvas and my life to unfold exactly as they need to.
