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When Simon and I shifted from the lake back to Portsmouth we did a huge apartment clean-out. I came across an ancient sketchbook/journal from high school. Inside were some really cool charcoal drawings - a couple self-portraits, a sketch of Pete, some pointe shoes, a few other little renderings. I was intrigued, so I added a sketchbook and drawing set to my Christmas list.
A couple weeks ago, I pulled the sketchbook out of my desk drawer, removed the top of the pencil set and...stared at the blank page. This happened no less than five times. Finally, last week, I repeated this process, but actually landed on something to draw and gave it a whirl.
It felt amazing. That old familiar sense of crafting, creating, making was back. I loved it. I'm trying to avoid deciding whether the products of either of my sketching sessions are "good" or "bad." That's another topic, but I do find it interesting that so much of my life has been dedicated to the arts, which don't have the "right or wrong" and "black or white" I have always craved.
Alas, whatever it is, I don't care. I just love the process and the feeling I get through it. It feels good. It's good to feel good these days.
