It Just Takes Time

It’s odd for me to think that I work as a full time artist now when I didn't draw much at all as a young adult. In high school I used to draw these boxes across the cover of every notebook and in the margin of every piece of paper. On and on they would go, box after box, my brain finding comfort in the repetitive movement of my hand across the page.

Not too long ago I experienced a trauma that redefined my life. In order to make sense of what I’d experienced I reverted back to my box drawing days. I took huge sheets of smooth, empty paper, a sturdy black Sharpie and began drawing boxes again. The boxes were followed by lines, then circles, triangles, rectangles, and other shapes. Somehow, listening to the felt tip scratch across the paper brought my mind into a space where I could deal with what I’d been through. I drew for days. The days stretched to weeks and then months. I filled notebook after notebook. They were messy. But I knew, even then, that they weren’t meant to be perfect, that is was the action of making the drawing that was important for me. Eventually, I filled the shapes in with color, and with every area that I colored I slowly climbed out of the dark hole I’d been in.

None of these drawings were masterpieces. They were never meant to be. They were the path that allowed me to find my way out of the darkness that had swallowed me whole.

We’ve all been through some things recently. You may be in the midst if your own dark night right now. If so, I encourage you to grab your pen. Lay out a sheet of clean, empty paper. Begin with a line. Draw a circle or maybe even a box. Draw a hundred more.

You will come back to yourself. It just takes time.